Home Is Where The Heart Is
by miss Kittyplank
Summary: October, 1929. Sir Richard and Mary have been married for ten years and have two children, but after the Wall St Crash are forced to return to England, to Downton and to Matthew Crawley. M/M
1. Chapter 1

I've had this story going around my head for a while. It's a M/M story, but for this chapter, I'm afraid Matthew's not in it yet, but I hope you understand why. Obviously, I ship M/M, but my Richard Carlisle's not a villain - he's not perfect, but he's not evil either. I hope you enjoy and I'd really love to hear your thoughts. Fingers crossed, this doesn't actually happen in Downton :)

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><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong>

_25th October, 1929._

Mary smiled gratefully and slid out of the car as Roberts held open the car door, her Mary Janes clicking on the pavement. She glanced up at their house – mansion, really, - and sighed at how dreadfully American it looked. Upper East Side, a few doors down from the Rockafellars, it was perfect apparently. She didn't like it. She'd only just got used to Boston and now he'd upped and moved them to New York for business again. _For business_, if she never heard those words again, it wouldn't be too soon. He'd promised a great country house – _American is so big, dear, we can have acres for your horses, it'll be lovely _– and, instead, he'd moved her to another continent to live out her life in another city. She preferred London. Walking up the steps, she nodded to Martin, the butler, as he stood by the front door, ready to take her coat, hat and gloves. She asked for him to bring tea before pausing before the mirror in the hall and checking her hair. She wasn't the vainest woman in the world by any means, but Mary took pride in her appearance and she was pleased that still, at thirty-six, she was standing the test of time, as her mother did. The wide use of make-up certainly helped a little. She hadn't gone for the A-line bob though, with its unforgiving fringe. That had certainly been a disaster for some women, she thought wryly. She'd embraced the wavy bob, more youthful. Yes, in her two-piece sweater and skirt set and long strands of pearls, she could objectively say she scrubbed up well.

Perhaps, that's why the Americans seemed to like her so much. That, and the title. It wasn't often one could say they'd had a lady, the daughter of an Earl, to dine. Her days seemed to be filled with lunches and invitations for this and that with the crème de la crème of New Yorker high society. It could be terribly dull, but she knew she should do her bit. Richard had worked like a dog to get the American papers up off the ground, the least she could do was help smooth the way with the lenders and well-known readers and, of course – and arguably, more importantly – their wives. In fact ,Richard and she could easily go a day without seeing each other. Mary wasn't too bothered by that, but, as she smiled wistfully at the girlish giggles coming from the drawing room, she knew that spending time away from her children was something she was not indifferent to. Creeping in, she grinned at the sight before her. Her daughter lay on the Persian rug, legs crossed, feet in the air and her chin in her hands as she read a clearly amusing book. America was definitely a little less bleak with her two angels by her side.

Christened Emily Violet Carlisle and Peter Carson Carlisle, aged eight and five respectively, Mary decided that she'd never really know herself before becoming a mother. And, no matter the ups and downs in her marriage, both she and Richard were agreed on the fact that their children were of the highest importance and were the very best children in the world. Emily – Emmie, as she was often affectionately known – was a very clever little girl. Hence, her love of reading. She was honest, sometimes brutally so, stubborn and didn't like to share her feelings nor suffer fools gladly. She didn't like being told what to do; despite Helen's protests that she keep to the nursery, Emily played downstairs exclusively. Clearly – apart from the grey eyes and light chestnut hair, inherited both from her father - she was her mother's daughter in every way. So, unsurprisingly, the two tended to butt heads now and then. Finally giving in to the urge, Mary stepped forward and stroked her daughter's hair.

"Emmie darling, how has your day been?"

Mary sat down into her arm chair and waited patiently for her daughter to tell her all about her day. She smiled as Martin came in with the tea, more brightly when she saw her daughter's eyes light up at the cakes on offer. Closing her book, Emmie blew up tiredly at her fringe - she suited the long bob very well – and came to sit opposite her mother, cross-legged on her chair. Mary thought to correct her, but was disinclined to start their evening together with an argument over how to sit properly. "Very well Mama, we read the Gospel of Luke before lunch and then Mrs. Turner took us to the park this afternoon."

"The Gospel of Luke?"

"Uh-huh. '_Blessed are the poor, for yours is the kingdom of God'_: chapter six, verse twenty."

Mary sighed inwardly, as she poured her tea and watched her daughter proceed to get sugar powder all over her face. She hadn't thought to ask whether Mrs. Turner had been fanatically religious during the interview, but, then again, she'd never hired a governess before. "Well," Mary started, aware that she should not undermine Mrs. Turner, "I suppose that's true, money doesn't amount to much in heaven."

"Perhaps, but you're hardly _blessed_ if you're poor, don't you think? Given the choice between being poor or rich, I think everyone would choose to be rich."

Her daughter had a point there. But money and status wasn't everything, despite her life now, and that Mary had had to learn the hard way. "...perhaps, but...I don't believe Jesus would agree with that, do you?"

"He didn't know any different!" Emmie insisted, licking her fingers, her legs now dangling from the chair and swinging contently. "If he was still alive today and saw how good it all is now, I doubt he'd be happy with being born in a _stable_!" Mary tried not to grin at her daughter's sincerity. "So, I told Mrs. Turner that she was ridiculous and that she must read some other books and borden her mind-"

"_Broaden_ her mind-"

"Then, she told me I was a wicked child and shouldn't talk back to my betters."

"You are not wicked, my darling," her mother insisted, firmly, before shaking her head, "but you really shouldn't speak to Mrs. Turner like-"

"Which I agreed with!" Emmie wasn't listening, she was too busy being bitter as she recalled what happened. Playing with the sugar on her plate, she suddenly sighed unhappily. Emily, like her mother, was quick to change. Only pleased for a little while and never down for long. "I told her that it was alright because she was by no means my better! Silly old bat."

"Emily, you should be kinder to Mrs. Turner! She's a widow who lost her only son in the Great War who loves you very much, so don't be rude."

"Oh, well...I'm sorry her son died. I didn't know that." Emmie said quietly. Knowing when she was in the wrong, she took her mother's rebuke without complaint. "I shall try to be nicer, Mama."

"That's better." Her eyes softened and let her daughter have another cake. "Where's Rabbit?"

Rabbit, as so called by only his parents, Peter Rabbit or rather Peter Carlisle was Mary's darling little boy. Polite and generous, but very shy amongst those he didn't know and often anxious, Peter was usually happiest when hiding behind his Mama's legs. Apart from being pale like his sister, the differences between the two siblings couldn't be more apparent. He had his mother's dark chocolate hair and soulful eyes, but – according to a confession from the now late Mark Carlisle – was as his father had been as a child. It seemed that Richard had been a timid boy, too. Mary's father-in-law believed Richard's shyness had led him to concentrate on his studies and become a very hard-worker and, as a young man, he'd overcome his lack of confidence by overcompensating and thus often coming off as obnoxious and brash. The hallmarks of an insecure man, apparently. Perhaps, that was why Richard and Peter seemed to have a rather strained relationship at times; Mary thought that it might be that Richard didn't like being confronted with a daily reminder of how nervous he had once been. Emmie was her Father's little princess – a result of a strict middle class background, Richard preferred that the children only call him Father – but Peter and Richard had struggled to find common ground. What was a fifty five-year old businessman to do with a little boy who wished to spend all his time talking about his imaginary adventures with his best friend, Nicholas: a rather sorry looking brown bear with only one eye wearing only a tie? Mary hadn't been too concerned, there was always Papa – who doted on the boy as his only grandson – and Carson – who had been a quite tearful butler when she'd christened him Peter Carson – but that was before Richard had whisked them off across the pond. Rabbit needed a father figure in his life, preferably his father.

"Peter's off playing. He won't talk to me."

Mary looked up at the ceiling, exasperated at Emmie's matter-of-factness about it. She really wished her children wouldn't bicker so much. Although, when she thought back to some of the things Edith and she had said and done to each other as children – and even as adults – Mary realised she was quite fortunate. There was no real spitefulness behind it. Emily thought Peter cried too much, took up too much of Mama's time and wasn't very clever, whilst Peter thought his sister to be bossy and moody and mean. Of course, only _they_ could say that about each other. They'd defend each other if the need called for it and, at this age, Mary realised it was probably the best she could hope for. "Why? What did you do?"

Emmie had the good grace to look affronted at that. "Why does everyone always assume I've done something?" One look from her mother forced her to change her tune. "...I hid his bear this morning."

"You hid Nicholas again? You know that drives your brother mad!"

"I only hid it once today! And I don't know why you call it that, it's not real!" She leant forward as if about to impart a great secret. "It's _stuffed_!"

"It's real enough to your brother!" Her daughter's face so close, she couldn't help but wipe away the sugar from her face, despite her struggles to get away. "Honestly, Emily!"

"Mama, you're back!"

Mary had barely the time to prepare herself as her son flung himself at her, demanding a hug. Giving it gladly, she settled him on her lap, allowing him to reach for a cake.

"Rabbit, my darling, where have you been?"

"Nicholas and I went to France." Mary glanced down fondly at the old bear, who remained – as always – clutched to her son's side.

"You did, did you?" She grinned at his excitement. "How thrilling, whatever for?"

"To fight in the war."

"Ah," She wasn't quite sure she liked the idea of him imagining that, but she was soon distracted. "Hence, the muddy trousers?" Peter stopped chewing to briefly look at his mother guiltily. "Wonderful, Rabbit. Go and clean yourself up before your father gets home."

"_Rabbit_?" Peter shook his head, mouth still full. "No, Mama, I'm in the army now! I'm Captain Peter!"

Emmie rolled her eyes. "It would be Captain Carlisle, stupid!"

"Enough, please." Mary sighed as Peter stuck his tongue out at his sister and reached for another cake. Batting his hand away, she forced him to get up. "Rabbit, go find Helen and change."

"But Captain Nicholas and I aren't finished!" He pouted at her. "We need to-"

"You gave yourself the same rank as your bear?" His sister asked, incredulous and still, years later, baffled by her brother's attachment to that toy.

"Emily!" Mary scolded. "Go and wash up." Her son remained unmoved. She raised her eyebrows expectantly and crossed her arms. "Now, Captain, that's an order."

"...yes, Sir."

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><p>"Ah, my two lovely ladies."<p>

Seated at her desk, Mary glanced up, smiling at her daughter's grin, as Richard walked into the room. He'd managed to make it back before dinner. "Father!"

"Hello dearest, what a pretty picture!" He leant down to pat his daughter's head, as she sat kneeling at the coffee table, scribbling away. "The drawing's very nice too." He winked at her. "And how is Mama?" He asked, tiredly, making his way over to his wife.

He hadn't changed much, during the last ten years, a little rounder around the middle, his hair a little thinner and greyer, but he was still considered quite handsome for a man of his age. After they'd married, Richard had certainly softened towards Mary. Perhaps, marriage agreed with him, but she knew it more a matter of his relief at having got her past the point of no return. He hadn't demanded much of her and let her run their houses as she wished. She'd been happy to fulfil most wifely duties; parties, dinners, charity events – they had given her something to do. Even the most intimate wifely duties hadn't been a chore and Richard could be quite tender when he wanted. He'd been most pleased when she'd given him a daughter and then a son. Once upon a time, she hadn't thought he could ever bring her any kind of happiness, but she'd grown used to it over the years. Used to the family life, having someone to tell her day to, and it comforted her greatly. That was not to say that they didn't have their disagreements. When he'd announced that he wanted them all to move to America, there had been many shouting matches. She was stubborn and he had a short temper; often, it didn't make the best mix. In recent years, most of their arguments had concerned the children. He felt that she wasn't firm enough with them and she berated him for not spending enough time at home. But, if things really turned nasty – once in a blue moon, he might even raise a hand to her – he'd be sure to utter the two syllables which had become taboo within their marriage: Matthew.

"Very well, thank you." She leant up, allowing him to kiss her on the cheek. "Mrs Franklin would like me to be the patron to some City arts' foundation that apparently the Mayor is putting together."

"You don't sound enthused."

"Oh, well, what do I know about the arts?" She shrugged, finishing penning something in her diary. "I can only just about hold a tune, play chopsticks on the piano and all I can say about a painting is whether I like it or not," He smiled at her modesty and collapsed tiredly in his armchair. "I'm hardly de Vinci. Oh, and I received a letter from my mother, she says Carson's settled back well, although why she's telling me this almost ten months after the fact I have no idea..."

"Carson?"

"Our butler, dear." She frowned at him, as she went to the drinks cabinet. "Remember, at Hacksby Park."

"Yes, thank you." He sighed at her condescension. He wasn't that old, he remembered, he was just exhausted. "Why, did we dismiss him?"

"No, he _asked_ to return to Downton," She replied, exasperated. "We discussed this. In the last three years, we've spent less than four months in England, the majority of which we were in London."

"So, what was the problem? He was getting paid well for barely lifting up a finger, most would be pleased at the prospect."

"For a self-made man who proudly works all the hours that God gives him, would it be too difficult to believe that Carson found his work not entirely satisfying?" His silence gave her all the reply she needed. "Anyway, Downton is his home, it's only right that he's back there."

"Hmm," Richard offered, noncommittally, his mouth twitching with thanks as his wife gave him a glass of brandy. "Anything else of interest?"

"...She's asked again that we and the children spend the summer at Downton."

He glanced up at her tone, confused. "You sound pleased at that, you don't usually sound pleased at the idea of going back to Downton."

Mary shrugged, her hand resting on the back of his chair. "Well, my parents need to spend some time with their grandchildren and Granny won't be around for much longer."

Richard frowned, sipping his drink, pensively. "...This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain someone being on a tour of Europe this summer, would it?"

She sighed inwardly, but stopped herself from making a quick retort. Matthew would be in Europe during the summer, according to her Mama. Now and then, Cora mentioned him in her letters, but Richard didn't need to know about that. It was same old, same old, really. After mourning Lavinia, Matthew went back to his law firm and putting most of his energy into helping Papa around the estate. The fact that her father didn't mention Matthew around Richard – on the rare occasions that they actually saw her parents – was a real practise of self-control. At Downton, in the village, even in the county, Matthew really was the golden boy. With both Sybil and Edith married, Cora now seemed to focus on finding Matthew a wife, still a bachelor. Although why she insisted on telling Mary all this, Mary really didn't know. Well, he had proposed to her fifteen years ago, her family had assumed she'd moved past it. Fifteen years, by God, that was a long time. Since her marriage, she'd only seen Matthew here and there. He went to her wedding, of course, there was no getting out of that and he'd briefly seen Emily as a baby, but that was about it. All meetings with her family had taken place in London and Matthew never went there and, whilst she'd received birthday cards and Christmas cards for herself and the children from him, they'd all been written with Isobel's hand. It was time they put it all to rest, she supposed. Squeezing her husband's shoulder in reassurance, she eased his worries."...No, really Richard, that was all so many years ago."

He stared at her for a moment, but seemed to find whatever he was looking for. "Good, well, by all means then, tell your mother that we'd be delighted." He glanced about the room, noticing their family was incomplete. "Where's Rabbit? Off attempting to climb Mount Everest, no doubt!"

Mary opened her mouth to reply, but Emmie beat her to it, still happily colouring in. "Peter's pretending to kill Germans." Richard blinked at that. "But, _anyone who hates his brother is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life in him_. John, chapter three, verse fourteen." Richard blinked again. Emmie shrugged, casually. "What? God's words, not mine!"

Sighing, he turned to his wife, irritated. "Have you told Mrs. Turner that I'm not paying her to teach my daughter to quote the Bible?"

"Yes, already twice this week." She assured him. Whilst a governess had been fine for her, Mary was less inclined to subject her daughter to it. Sybil would rejoice at the thought; Mary wanted to send Emily to school, to receive a proper education and, in New York, there were many schools to choose from. Richard, meanwhile, still clung on to whatever idea he had about how upper class girls grew up. There was no point in arguing about it now though. "And Rabbit's decided that he doesn't want to be an explorer anymore, he wants to join the army."

"Our own Private Carlisle?"

"Please, when Rabbit dreams, he dreams big." She smiled, sitting down on the sofa. "He's an officer, a Captain!"

"Of course he is, I suppose I'll hear all about it over dinner."

"So, you will be joining us for dinner?" She tried to keep the surprise out of her tone.

"I hope so. I just need to finish some correspondence." That was more like it, Mary thought bitterly, he'd end up taking a tray in his room, no doubt. Seemingly reading her mind, Richard threw back the last of his drink and stood up. "Please spare me your lectures, the markets have been all over the place these last few days, I need to reassure my investors."

"Is it really that bad? The newspapers sound very ominous, but I confess that I don't really understand it all."

"There's nothing for you to understand." He waved his hand dismissively in an attempt to reassure her, but her eyes flickered with annoyance. "Try not to worry, it'll sort itself out over the weekend. Come Monday all will be well."

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><p><em>28th October 1929.<em>

"No Peter, if we're to play, then we must play properly." Emmie clenched her jaw as Peter insisted putting, what she thought to be, his grubby little hands all over her dollhouse.

"But why can't Nicholas play? He can be their pet bear!" He insisted, as he had done for the last ten minutes. Mary sighed, as she took her breakfast, praying that they could play together for just a few minutes whilst she finished reading the newspaper. She bit her lip, trying to wrap her head around it all; every article seemed to be about what was going on with the Stock Exchange.

"No one keeps bears for pets! Your bear doesn't fit in a single room! It's too silly for words!"

She went to chastise them, but was stopped as Martin came into the breakfast room. "Pardon, my lady, but there's a Mr. Tibbet on the telephone?"

"Mr. Tibbet?"

"I believe he's one of Sir Richard's associates, my lady. He's called a few times in the hopes that Sir Richard was here, but now he wants to speak to you."

"Oh, very well." She was never going to read the bloody paper. "I don't see how I can help. Oh, and I'll be lunching here today, Martin, and you can give Helen the afternoon off, we'll be a happy little threesome, won't we?" She looked over at her children in the hopes of stopping their bickering and was rewarded with smiles. "We'll go to the park or something!"

Walking out into the hall, heels clicking against the marble, she picked up the receiver. "Hello?" She groaned inwardly, she hated the echo in this house.

"_Good morning, Lady Mary, it's Harry Tibbet."_

"Of course it is." He was American, that much was clear, but apart from that, she hadn't the faintest idea who he was. "How are you? I'm afraid Sir Richard's still at the office. It is the middle of the morning, after all."

"_As well enough as can be expected. This whole business with the company's shares has been...just as you might imagine."_

"I don't..." She trailed off, she couldn't imagine. With matters of business, Richard never told her anything, but the papers had her concerned. "Is there a problem?" The pause on the other end of the line confirmed that there was. "Please, Mr. Tibbet."

"_Alright, I'm sure he plans on telling you this evening – I'd hate to tread on anyone's toes – but, if he's not at the office and hasn't heard already, someone better tell him. You see, they've all pulled out."_

"_They_? You'll have to put it simply for me, I'm afraid." She played with the cord of the telephone, adopting her best 'I'm but a woman' tone that men never failed to give in to.

"_We've gone the same way as the rest of the Stock Exchange, my lady. I'd hoped the markets would level, but they've lost billions. It's mayhem! No one can scarcely believe it!...and Carlisle Ltd. has lost nearly everything. There's no getting out of this hole without a hell of a lot of money, my lady, and some are saying this could last some time, years even...It's over, the last investors are pulling out."_

"Oh my God." Mary whispered. How had they lost everything? It wasn't possible, surely? He'd told her not to worry about! She swallowed nervously and tried to cling on to something. "But Richard's in newspapers, _everyone_ buys newspapers, after all that's how we're finding out about this business on Wall Street!"

"_That's true, but, well, all our investors are private investors and they've put their money in other less forgiving ventures. The timing of this is all so horrible! I know how much Sir Richard borrowed in order to expand into America."_

She stopped herself just in time from scoffing at that. Harry Tibbet might know how much her husband had borrowed, but, it seemed, his _wife_ was to be kept in the dark. "I see."

"_Well...if you hear from him, please do let me know."_

"Mary! Have Jennings pack your things, we're leaving, we're leaving now!" Mary jumped, as her husband came breathlessly through the front door, looking panicked, almost wild in fact.

"_Is that him?"_

"I'll...I'll have to call you back, Mr. Tibbet." She murmured, as her eyes locked with Richard's. Not waiting to hear his response, Mary put the phone down.

"Tibbet?" Richard frowned. Dismissing Martin with a wave of his hand, he proceeded to hastily take off his hat and coat himself. "What the hell did he want? Don't answer that, I already know the answer."

"Is it true?" Whilst Richard was clearly agitated and couldn't keep still, she was rooted to the spot. "Are we ruined?"

"Not if I have anything to say about." He muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. "But any business I have in this country is at an end. I _must_ go to London and speak to my investors, face to face!" He began to pace in front of her, seeming to talk more to himself than to her. "The newspapers here were only just starting to pick up, they won't survive...but in England, I might...I'll leave you and the children at Downton, and go on from there, I've managed to get us on a ship to Liverpool this evening."

A ship? This evening? To Downton? It was too much for Mary to process. Her eyes flickered as she thought back to the telephone call. "But Tibbet says your last investors are pulling out."

He looked up at her, then, displeased. "That man! Can Americans be discreet about anything? What has he told you?" He demanded of her.

His demands were enough to rile her from her catatonic state. How dare he act as if she didn't have a right to know? Her eyes flashed with anger. "I'm not really sure, seeing as this is the first I've heard of it! You said all would be well! How could you keep this from me?"

"Let us talk of how I failed you as a husband another time, hmm?" He shot back, wryly, sarcastically. All too well aware of how he'd failed her and their family. "Have Jennings pack...for winter, for summer, everything, the house will have to be shut up, I'll need to speak to Huddlesford about the children's trust funds, I might be able to..." He trailed off into his own thoughts again, and was surprised to see his wife still stood before him when he looked up again. "Why are you standing there, Mary? Please! We leave today! We leave for good! Do you understand?"

Her lips formed a thin line, her eyes like steel. "Those trust funds were set up by my father and are _not_ to be touched, do _you_ understand?" She warned him, quietly. "...We will go, as a family, you'll get no arguments from me. After all, it was _your_ idea to drag us across the Atlantic, not mine." He swallowed, as she turned away from him and began to ascend the stairs. She paused and looked over her shoulder, sighing sadly. "...If I find out that you've built our lives on sinking sands, Richard...I'll never forgive you."

"Well, we would have that in common, then," he smiled bitterly up at his wife. "For I would never forgive myself."

**TBC...**

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><p><strong><strong>Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much for your reviews! Please keep them coming! Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

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><p><strong>Chapter 2:<strong>

_1st November, 1929._

"Mama, look! We're pulling into the station!"

Emily broke her mother's daydream as the train slowly came into the station. It looked bitter outside and misty; Yorkshire's autumns could be dreadfully cold. Mary had made sure the children were dressed warmly – Rabbit looked darling in his little tweed jacket and scarf, Emmie with her little woollen hat and red coat. She yawned into the back of her hand; the last week had been awfully tiring. The children seemed to have an abundant amount of energy, so excited to cross the Atlantic on an ocean liner and travel by train. Everything was new and exciting for them, but Mary could not rid herself of the fear which gripped at her heart. Richard's business – their livelihood – was at stake. The newspapers in America had gone under, but he could still salvage the papers in London. He hadn't said much during the crossing, which had her worried. Usually, Richard would dismiss any worries that his wife had, particularly with regard to money – _money's no object dear...it's business, you wouldn't understand...if you want it, buy it_ – but, instead, over the last few days, he had answered all her questions with honesty and an unusual patience. Penance for keeping her in the dark, no doubt. He had planned to travel with them to Downton, to see them settled, but the markets were not taking a break and neither could he. When they pulled into Liverpool, he got on the first train to London.

Looking at her daughter, nose to the glass, as the platform came into view, Mary briefly wished that she could be so innocent, so unaware of the world and all its tribulations. How excited Emmie was to see her extended family again, how ignorant she was to the reasons behind their return. Mary smiled and glanced down at her son, tucked by her side, his face already wary. Rabbit couldn't really remember England; he'd thought it so fascinating when they'd got off the ship and everyone sounded just like them. He remembered his grandparents, of course; only six months ago, they came to stay with their daughter in New York, but _Downton_...Downton could only be forgotten by a child who was too young to remember. There would be no forgetting her this time.

"So we are. It's exciting, isn't it?" She brushed the hair out of her son's face – Gosh, it needed cutting – hoping he would agree.

"...yes, if I wasn't in the army, I might be a train driver, Mama."

"Oh Peter," Emmie sighed, wiping the condensation from the window to get a better look, "who cares about the train, we're back at Downton!"

"But I don't remember Downton."

"I do. It's like a castle! And Grandpapa is king of it and there's a wood and a stream and fields for miles and miles and we can play wherever we want, Peter!" Emmie briefly looked back at her brother, a grin stretched from ear to ear.

"Is it true?" Peter looked up at his Mama, his eyes lighting up in wonderment. "Is Grandpapa a king?"

"Not quite, Rabbit," Mary smiled indulgently, "but I hope you think Downton as lovely as I do. It's where I grew up. So, the wood and fields that you shall play in are where _I_ once played. A nice thought, isn't it?"

Peter nodded, but his brow was still creased with that familiar concern. "Why couldn't Helen come with us or Martin?"

Mary sighed inwardly. Leaving had been harder than she thought it would be. She'd hated their move to New York and had resented Richard for months, if not years, because of it. But, as they packed up the last of their things, Mary was faced with the ironic truth that she'd just started to get used to her life in America. She was used to the family life that they had built for themselves there. As their children had made their goodbyes, Helen had cried, as did many of the maids, and even Mrs. Turner shed a tear. Martin held it together, but said should they ever need a butler on his side of the Atlantic, they call him immediately. All of their friends, although both Mary and Richard used that term loosely, were sad to see them go; they, of course, convinced everyone that they had a scheduled return to England to visit Mary's family. They wouldn't be returning though and that left Mary very melancholic about it all. She looked down into her son's distraught little face; the house in New York had been his home. "Because they're American, their families live there, and it's an awfully long way to travel. We've shut up the house."

"For good?" Emmie asked eagerly. Mocked for her accent and haughtiness, Emily hadn't found any playmates in New York and tended to share Mary's penchant for considering England with rose-tinted glasses.

"I don't know, perhaps..." Mary trailed off, not wanting to disappoint either child, as the train ground to a halt. "Your grandparents are going to be so thrilled to see you. I shall be able to show you all the wonderful secret places I went as a child!"

"Why don't you live there anymore?"

"Well, Emmie, because there comes a time when one should fly the nest, and I did that when I married your father."

"Promise me," Emmie turned to her mother for a moment, and fixed her with that same look that Mary had employed a thousand times over as a child to get what she wanted, "we shall stay here always."

"Emmie, I don't think-"

"Carson!" Her daughter suddenly shouted. Not waiting for the first class carriage to be opened, Emily flung herself on to the platform, and ran towards the familiar figure as fast as her little legs could carry her. "It's Carson!"

"Emily!" Mary had barely time to register her daughter's escape from the train. She sighed inwardly, as she espied her little girl in red, stopping just shy of throwing her arms around Carson's legs. Mary tutted, but couldn't help smiling as she lifted Peter up on to her hip and exited the carriage_. I_ _know you love Carson, Mary, but you mustn't hug him. There are rules to that sort of thing, you know_. That's what Granny had told her. A kiss on the cheek, riding his back like he was a pony, Mary had made it clear how much she loved the dear butler, but she'd never hugged him, for fear he wouldn't hug her back. Walking towards the pair, Mary considered her daughter, bobbing on her feet at seeing Carson, but nervous to reach out. Carson stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, looking as imposing as he always had and seemingly ageless. Smiling, as she drew closer, Mary couldn't imagine a Downton without Carson; her smile became a grin as the old butler recognised her and his eyes began to twinkle. She raised an eyebrow, as she stopped in front of him. "Don't tell me that Papa made you the chauffeur."

"Not at all, my lady," his timbre unchanged and as dry as ever, "but his Lordship felt it might be best if a friendly face collected you from the station."

Mary nodded, satisfied, before remembering, guiltily, how she had been the reason that Downton and Carson had been parted for a few years. "And how are you enjoying being home?"

"Very well, my lady," he didn't smile, he rarely did, but Carson's contentment was clear to her, "and you?"

He was asking her if she enjoyed it, being _home_. Did he mean England? She wasn't sure. He couldn't mean Downton, surely? The very notion that he meant Downton left her with a frog in her throat. Her daughter saved her from answering. "We enjoy it very much, don't we, Mama? Have you shrunk, Carson?"

Mary went to chastise her; her daughter seemed to have no filter for what was appropriate. "Emmie, please..."

"I doubt it, Miss Emily." Carson answered, unfazed, peering down. "I only look smaller, because you've grown into quite the pretty young lady since I saw you last."

Mary smiled as Emily blushed happily, but shook her head at the old butler. "You needn't call her Miss, Carson."

Arms around his mother's neck, Rabbit couldn't help but agree. "And you don't have to call her pretty either!"

* * *

><p>Standing anxiously on the gravel entrance, Cora tapped her foot impatiently as she awaited the arrival of Mary and her family. Robert was fussing at the entrance about something, just as anxious as she was. As soon as they'd had the telegram, asking them to stay, they'd known something was wrong. Robert had scowled and lost his temper, aware of the current financial crisis and knowing his son-in-law had somehow been affected by it. <em>He'll have got himself into debt, I tell you! I bet he's been speculating! <em>But all were agreed that the Carlisles must stay at Downton. It had been too long since they'd seen the grandchildren, of course, and they were so darling. Of course, the Granthams saw Edith's Margo regularly and, when they did the London season, they were always able to see Sybil and her little girls, Charlotte and Imogen, but, to see Emily and Peter was a rare treat. Seeing Emily was like looking into the past; she was Mary in every way. So smart and witty, she had so much potential and wasn't scared of sharing her opinion. The Dowager thought her marvellous. And as for Peter, well, he had the fortune – be it good or bad – of being the only grandson. Every Crawley woman wanted to pinch his cheeks and Robert doted on him as only a grandfather could. He had a gentle heart and an old soul, dear Peter, and no one could help but love him. Grinning, as the car came into view, Cora hoped that they would stay for good. Her family together again.

"Oh Robert, come quick, I can see them! Hello, my darlings!"

Robert finally rushed out of the house. His knees weren't what they once were, but suddenly he had a spring in his step. He smiled. "Look at Carson, he's beaming."

"Oh hush, he'll hear you, see their faces!" Cora gasped, as the car drew to a stop, and the children clambered out of the car. All his nervousness gone at the sight of his dear grandparents, Peter beamed and ran at speed at his old playmate, squealing as he was lifted into the air.

"Grandpapa!"

"My dear, dear boy, how are you?" Robert kissed him, holding him up with one arm. Saddened to see how much his grandson had grown in his absence, but, seeing what Peter was holding, he was glad to see not all things had changed. "And Nicholas, I see, has lasted the journey, how do you do!"

Mary looked at her parents, wistfully, as her mother smothered Emily with kisses and her daughter presented the drawings she had created for them during the voyage to England. She watched, as Peter was placed back on the ground to hug her crying Mama and her father knelt down to be embraced by Emily, his first grandchild, who was happy to kiss his cheek and tell him how much he had been missed. Finally climbing out of the car, Mary realised there was a strange bond between grandparents and their grandchildren which couldn't be explained. A bond she'd never shared with her mother's parents, having rarely seen them during her childhood, but one that she had shared with her Granny and Grandfather. As she looked up at the big house before her, as familiar to her as the back of her hand, Mary remembered being bounced on her Grandfather's knees, being given a first taste of that night's dessert in the kitchen, being dared by Edith to slide down the stairs' banister...she'd lived a whole life in this house and no place had ever come close to replacing it.

"Welcome home, my lady."

She startled, as Carson drew beside her. He _had_ meant Downton. "Thank you, Carson."

Walking towards her parents, Mary smiled as her Mama embraced her tightly. "Mary, darling, how are you?" Glancing behind her, Cora frowned. "I see you've forgotten Richard!"

"Oh, he went straight on to London. Important business." Mary shrugged, reluctant to go into details, but well aware that her parents had already come to their own conclusions.

"No matter, I'm sure we'll see him soon." Cora smiled, not even feigning that she gave a fig where her son-in-law was. "I can't stop smiling, you're here, my grandchildren are here...you haven't been back to Downton for years-"

"And you are more than welcome to _stay_ at Downton for as long as you like." Robert interrupted, finally dragging himself from Peter and Emily long enough to kiss his daughter's brow. "Awful reason, of course, but you'll have to excuse a selfish, old father for being very glad that his Mary is back where she belongs! As is his Emily and his Peter!" He grinned at the children, ruffling Peter's hair.

"I missed you both, as well." Robert rolled his eyes happily at his daughter's general lack of enthusiasm, knowing that she'd missed them a great deal.

"I should hope so." Cora agreed, before sighing. "Now, let's go inside before your grandmother scolds me for letting the children catch a chill."

Walking into the drawing room, Granny seemed not to have changed all that much. Her hair was a little thinner and Mary knew she took to a chair often, but she'd always had the part of the old Granny pitched perfectly. As the years had gone by and Sybil had left to marry Branson and Edith had married Anthony Strallan, it became increasingly clear that Granny was lonely in the Dowager House and lacked the stamina to travel to Downton for dinner each night. Thus, her mother had made one hell of a sacrifice and allowed Robert to move his mother back into Downton where she belonged. Everyone talked about it as if it were temporary, but Granny wasn't getting any younger. She would die at Downton, just as her husband had, and just as her son would. Mary smiled, as her grandmother's grey eyes, as sharp as ever, seemed to pierce into her soul.

"Mama, look," Robert smiled, entering hand-in-hand with Emily and Peter, "it's Mary and the children!"

"Thank you, Robert." Violet smiled thinly at her son, her tone dry. "I'm old, not blind. Mary, my dear, how are you?" She grasped her dear granddaughter's hands as Mary leant down to kiss her.

"All the better for seeing you, Granny, you look well."

Violet waved her off. "Don't, you sound like everybody else – poised and ready for me to shuffle off this mortal coil. I don't look dead, so everyone's always pleasantly surprised by appearance."

Mary grinned, taking the chair beside her. "Regardless of how you look, I can see you haven't changed much."

"Perish the thought." She looked Mary over, appraisingly; pleased to see her granddaughter looking smart in a jacket with capped sleeves, brought in with a belt and a long skirt, a fitted beret on her head. "Thank God, are waists finally fashionable again? I'm so relieved. You must tell Edith, she's not one for keeping up with these sorts of things and I can't stand looking at her in a knee-length sack if there are other choices available."

"I wish you wouldn't," Cora warned Mary, happy to have Mary back but reluctant to see her daughters fall into fighting again. "Edith's coming at the end of the week. That'll be nice, won't it, Emily? Spending some time with your cousin Margo?"

The look on Emily's face said it all. Margaret Cora Strallan and Emily Violet Carlisle may have been cousins, but they certainly weren't friends. Blonde, blue-eyed and an only child, Margo was used to have her grandparents' attention to herself and Emmie wanted to make it clear who came first. Two years between them, they have fallen much into the relationships that their mothers had shared as children, being so similar to their mothers in disposition. Margo was often insecure and thus always eager to please; Emmie thought her a coward and a sycophant. Emmie gave her opinion gladly and valued the truth beyond all else; Margo thought her full of herself and headstrong. The result, of course, was that the girls bickered and could be quite spiteful to one another. Emily would say something cuttingly witty and Margo would usually end up crying, screaming or biting Emily in return.

"Alright then, come here." Violet demanded, beckoning her great-granddaughter to come closer. "Ah Emily – Emily _Violet_, if I remember correctly, a very good name – later, after dinner, if you speak to Carson, he'll be sure to give you the chocolate I bought, for you and your brother."

"Thank you very much, Granny Violet."

"Well, yes," Violet smiled, "you're most welcome, you may give me a kiss if you want."

Emily grimaced a little. She didn't like kissing very old ladies if she could help it; they tended to have facial hair. "I'd rather not, thank you."

"Emmie!" Mary blinked.

"No, that's perfectly fine." The smile not leaving Violet's face for a moment. "Honesty, I like that in a person. Your mother wrote that you've been reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, at the moment?"

"She's very clever, our Emily." Cora smiled, taking the seat next to Mary. "I daresay she could even outwit you, Mama."

"Really?" Violet asked, not at all that surprised. "Good, good. Alice was my favourite book as a girl."

"Mine too." Emily admitted, a little abashed for having refused to give her Granny a kiss.

"Good. We'll read it together, hmm? And what do you like, Peter?"

"I don't like Margo." Peter declared firmly, his hand still in his grandfather's. He didn't remember much about England, but one usually remembered those who left teeth marks.

"Rabbit, that's..." Mary sighed. Sometimes she wondered if her children were a little too honest. "He's joking!"

"No I'm not, she bites!"

"That she does!" Robert laughed.

"Well, she won't, once you've spent more time together." Cora insisted, displeased to think of her grandchildren not getting along. "Aunt Edith, Margo and Uncle Anthony only live a few miles away, so we see them often – you'll soon get used to each other's ways. And when Aunt Sybil, Uncle Tom and their girls come for Christmas, you'll both get to know them better, too."

"Christmas? At Downton?" Mary repeated, frowning, knowing her parents had already got their hopes up and had envisioned her staying indefinitely. Everything was so up in the air; she had no idea what Richard's plans were. He certainly wouldn't want them living at Downton. "I don't know if we'll still -"

"It'll be your first Christmas at Downton, Peter," Robert said cheerfully, sitting down in an armchair and lifting his boy on to his knee. "How do you like that?"

"I like that, Grandpapa, but only if Nicholas can spend Christmas here, too."

"We wouldn't have it any other way," Robert declared, feigning horror at the thought, "would we, Grandmama?"

Cora smiled at the sight before her. It was good to have children in the house once more. "No, we wouldn't."

* * *

><p><em>4th November, 1929.<em>

Within a few days, it was as if the children had lived at Downton all their lives. They relished taking tea and cake with Granny Violet and Grandmama and Grandpapa was nearly always on hand to play a game or tell a story. And, if they didn't have time to keep the children entertained, Emily and Peter would journey downstairs and keep Carson company. Every maid, every footman, lit up as they saw them approach; Downton had taken them to her heart. That, of course, had Mary worried, for she knew how difficult it would be to pull them from Downton. Which, at some point, was surely inevitable. Richard had telephoned once or twice to let her know how things were getting on, but he was insistent that all would be well and they could return to their lives from before. _Won't Christmas in London be magical for the children?_ She felt stuck between a rock and a hard place and she didn't know what to do for the best.

Her mother was perceptive to all of this. As Cora sat back in her chair and took in the sight before her, she hoped that Richard might find reasons to stay in London for a while. Sat on the lawn, she realised that they would all need to go in to change soon; Isobel and Matthew were coming for dinner. But, as the sun set, its rays flicked off the grass, as if it were a hot summer's evening. She sipped her tea, blinking against the low light, as her husband roared and chased after the children.

"He's going to give himself a heart attack, if he keeps doing that."

"Him?" Violet asked, unconvinced, stirring her own cup. "What about me? The constant screaming...one forgets what children are like."

Nevertheless, Violet smiled as her son approached her, his cheeks harbouring a healthy glow. The children kept him young. He bent over a little to catch his breath. "Isn't it lovely? He packs a punch, our Peter! And Emily, well, no man shall be good enough for her, I think!" He smiled, as the children waved and ran off back to the house. "Yes, it is lovely."

"Where have you sent them off now?" Cora asked, pouring her husband a cup.

"Oh, inside. They wanted to play hide and seek..." He sat down in the chair, fatigue suddenly setting in. "Is Mary still on the telephone?"

"Last time I heard, yes. She's berating Richard for abandoning the children and putting money first, as per usual..." Violet muttered, frowning as she noticed Cora's look of disbelief. "What? I happened to be nearby."

"She's on the telephone in _my_ _room_." Cora said, tutting. Sometimes, living with one's mother-in-law could be awfully trying.

Robert smiled, as a car came up the drive, thankful to be able to change the topic. "That'll be Matthew, with Cousin Isobel. He needed to come up to the house early, wanted to look over the new tenant leases."

"And prepare himself before dinner, probably." Cora ventured.

"Prepare himself for what?" Robert frowned; Violet rolled her eyes how oblivious her son could be.

"Not so loud," Cora hushed him, "Isobel's making her way over."

"With a swagger, no doubt." Violet complained, as her cup cluttered against the saucer. "She knows I'm not much of a walker anymore and cannot help but show off."

Robert looked at his mother, in sheer amazement; she could find fault anywhere. "She has to walk, Mama!"

"Speaking of Matthew," Violet breezed on to another subject, "how is your grand plan coming along? You'll have to invite all the unattached ladies we know to the Christmas ball."

"Mama!" Cora said, glancing over to check Isobel was far from hearing distance.

"What?" Violet asked, unashamed. "Isobel _knows_, even if she doesn't actively participate. Matthew will be _forty_ next year, he _needs_ to find a wife. The Great War wiped out many prized bachelors and he's the heir to the Earldom of Grantham. Matthew's a catch. What about the Honourable Kathryn Pierce? I thought there was something there."

"I think there might have been," Cora sighed, being dragged into conversation, knowing how pressing it was that Matthew find someone, "but – after a month or two – it sort of...fizzled out. He hasn't invited a single lady to the house. I tried to set him up with Sir Frank Gaulling's daughter not so long ago, but that boy never forgets. Isobel said that Matthew had apparently overhead Miss Gaulling, at Sybil's ball, declaring him very presumptuous for proposing to Mary."

"_Sybil's_ _ball_?" Robert repeating, nearly choking on his tea. "As in her debutante season? That was fifteen years ago!"

"And money well spent." Violet muttered, never having thought she'd see the day that her granddaughter married the chauffeur.

"You don't think he still holds a candle for Mary, do you?" Robert inquired, finally cottoning on to something his wife and mother had been well aware of for years. The two women shared a look.

"Whether he does or doesn't, it hardly matters, Robert." His mother said firmly. "Mary is married and has children. She's happy. Although I can't imagine he's still pining over Miss Swire. She was a lovely girl, but no one pines over a lovely girl for any substantial amount of time-"

"Hello there!" Cora interrupted desperately, seeing Isobel so close.

"Cousin Cora, Violet - you look well!" Isobel smiled, coming to stand beside them. "I met Mary in the village this morning, she looked so wonderful and Gosh, just as pretty as ever. Motherhood has done her the world of good, I'm sure." Cora and Robert smiled at the compliment. "Her eyes lit up when I mentioned the children and she said that I was more than welcome to come up to dinner early and meet them. Matthew's inside looking over some estate matter, if you want him, Robert?"

"No, no, Matthew's more than capable." Robert waved her off, knowing it to be true. "I'm afraid the children are off playing in the house, but you'll meet Peter and Emily at dinner; they'll chew your ear off. They do love it here."

"Shall I send for tea, Isobel?" Cora asked, hoping her husband wouldn't get too hopeful about Mary and the children staying permanently. He didn't deal well with disappointment when it came to family matters. "It's such a nice sunset, we should enjoy it whilst the weather holds."

"That's a splendid idea!" She stopped Cora from getting up. "Oh no, I'll go fetch Carson. I don't mind walking back, I quite enjoy it!"

"See?" Violet affirmed, as Mrs. Crawley moved out of ear-shot. "Show-off."

* * *

><p>Matthew squinted tiredly, as he poured over the papers on Cousin Robert's desk. He didn't have the eyesight of a young man anymore; he'd have to think about getting glasses. Glancing across the garden, he saw his mother with everyone else save one. Where was Mary? There was no use in pretending, he supposed. The moment that Robert mentioned Mary's coming, he'd been unable to think of little else and now they were to meet for the few time in years. His palms were sweating just thinking about it. Would he find her the same? What would she think of him now? They hadn't exactly parted badly, but they'd kept each other at a cordial distance. After Lavinia died, he walked around like a ghost, an apparition full of self-loathing and self-pity. He'd wanted to get in the grave with her; it was his fault she was dead, after all. The rest of 1919, Mary's wedding, Christmas at Downton – it had all passed like a blur. Then, at the start of the new decade, the wounds had begun to heal and, over time and with the help of his mother and the Granthams, he'd felt himself mend. And then it happened. Winter, 1920: the last time he and Mary had been together at Downton. She sat with a bouncing baby on her lap, unable to contain her joy; she looked so beautiful, so happy. Even Sir Richard, though pretentious and snide as always, couldn't stop beaming, his pride obvious to all. And it hit him. It finally occurred to Matthew that he could have been the one beaming with pride, his Mary holding <em>his<em> baby. Lavinia's death had broken him, but seeing that domestic picture before him irretrievably scattered all the pieces. It was then that he knew he would never be able to honour Lavinia's request: without Mary, he could never truly be happy.

He would never begrudge her happiness though. He looked at one of the photographs on Robert's desk. Unsurprisingly, Robert had chosen one where Richard was absent. Mary sat, smiling, her daughter's head resting against her knee, another bonnie baby on her lap. Her son, Peter, he remembered. He'd never met him. When Cora and Robert gushed about the children or Mary, he smiled politely and asked all the right questions. He made it clear that he had moved on and there was no ill feeling between them. Of course, the idea of him marrying now seemed almost out of the question. He had tried to find someone and Cousin Cora and Cousin Violet had done much to find a suitable Queen of Downton, but no woman ever really came close. There had been the heiress Miss Henrietta Falcon during the summer of '24, he'd even considered inviting her to Downton, but then his mother mentioned in passing that she resembled Mary and that put an end to that. He suffered all the ladies thrown at him, but he wasn't going to marry unless he loved them and, since his heart belonged to Mary, his bachelorhood seemed a certainty. Robert never pushed him, of course. _Don't worry, my boy, look at Abraham, he had Isaac when he was a hundred!_ He assumed that Matthew would get around to it eventually, but until then, Robert was more than pleased that his surrogate son had thrown himself into the estate.

Matthew pinched his nose; without a family or any real social life, what else was he to do with a weekend? His brow suddenly creased as he heard shuffling from under the table. Hearing sniffing, he jolted backwards. "Isis, is that you, old girl?" He swallowed, as he peered under the desk to see a little boy, legs drawn up to his chest, his head rested upon them, trying hard not to sob his heart out.

"...Oh, hello..." he started cautiously. Matthew would be the first to admit that he hadn't spent much time around children. There was always Margo, but he tended to avoid her if he could; she'd developed a crush on him and didn't let him out of her sight. "Are you alright?" Matthew sighed inwardly at himself: obviously he wasn't. Though Matthew knew this boy was Peter Carlisle – who else could he be? – Matthew also knew instinctively that he would have been able to pick the young lad out of a crowd. The puppy brown eyes, the raven hair, the darling face – this boy only had one mother. "I'm Matthew, and you are?" He smiled, encouragingly.

"P-peter..." Dear Peter whispered, trying to not let himself be intimidated by the stranger before him. He sniffed. "Well, I...Captain Peter, actually."

"Captain Peter!" Matthew came to kneel on the ground and popped his head under the desk. He grinned at the boy's familiar bemused expression. "My, it's a pleasure to meet you...I was a Captain, you know, in the army." He said cheerfully, hiding his nerves.

"You were?" Peter's tears were quickly forgotten, his voice full of awe.

"Yes, during the war..."

"It's tough work, isn't it?" Peter said, empathetically, crawling out from under the desk to come kneel opposite Captain Matthew. "Fighting the Germans."

"Quite." Matthew nodded in agreement, keeping the humour from his face. "I'll tell you all about it sometime, if you like, but first you must tell me why you were crying."

Matthew smiled, falling in love a little with the dear boy, as Peter's brow scrunched up into a frown. "It's only...we were playing, but well, I want Nicholas." A small sob escaped him.

"Ah, is Nicholas a friend?"

"Hmm," Peter nodded, biting his lip, "my _best_ friend."

"Well, he's probably looking for you," Matthew tried, impressed that the boy had made friends in the village so quickly, "and he won't assume that you're under a desk. I'll keep an eye out for him, are there other boys here? Do you two look alike?"

"Not really." Peter considered it a moment. "He only has one eye and just wears a tie, answers to Nicholas. Oh and he's a brown bear."

"...He's a brown bear." Matthew nodded again understandingly, pursing his lips together to stop a smile. "Well, I'm sure he couldn't have run off far."

"I know he hasn't!" Peter insisted. "Emmie wanted to play hide and seek and said she would hide Nicholas, but I didn't want her to because I knew she wouldn't tell me where he was! She won't give him back, she never does!"

"Emmie?"

"Emily, my _sister_." The young boy drawled out sister with disdain. "She says only babies carry their toys with them..." Peter frowned again and looked shyly up at Matthew. "Is that true?"

"I don't have any children, so I don't think I would be the right person to ask!" Matthew answered honestly, unsure of the best advice. He looked so young, surely he'd have a bear for some years yet.

"B-but you're a Captain!" Peter declared. "I'll...I'll believe whatever _you_ say."

Looking into a face of such trust and expectation, what else could one do? Smiling, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced the little dog that had been this man's best friend for over a decade. A little dog that had seen the French countryside blown apart, the confines of a hospital bed, the bottom of a drawer, that had been tossed in anger into the lake and then retrieved again and now knew its home to be every coat and jacket that Matthew Crawley owned.

Peter smiled at the small dog, already imagining what a good friend he would be to Captain Nicholas. "...what's his name?"

"Well, if he has one, then I don't know it." Matthew answered, looking fondly at the toy in his hand. " You see, I wasn't the first person to have this little chap, he was given to me, given to me for luck."

"Does he work?" Peter asked, eagerly. "Is he lucky?"

"Peter! What are you..." Emily's demand trailed off, as she was saw her brother kneeling with a man she'd never seen before. Her frown in place, she looked the man over, suspiciously. "Who are you?"

Matthew swallowed, getting to his feet. Peter joined him. He was suddenly getting flashbacks of the same look being sent by a young woman in a riding habit. "...I'm Matthew."

"...Captain Matthew..."Peter corrected him, nudging his side.

"Peter, come here." Emily demanded of her brother, glaring at this Matthew. "Mama says we shouldn't talk to strangers."

"He's not a stranger, Emmie!" Peter complained, but complied with his sister's _request_. Coming to her side, Emmie grasped her brother's hand protectively. "We fought in the war together, now give me back Nicholas!"

Emily ignored her brother and frowned at the man, curiously. "...Matthew?...You're the man who's going to get everything when Grandpapa dies."

"Um," Matthew's eyes widened. Gosh, she didn't mince words. "Yes, I'm the heir to the estate – in fact, we're cousins, you and I!"

The frown didn't leave her face. "Granny Violet says we're hardly related."

"Well, I'm glad, who wants more cousins?" Peter said cheerfully, shuddering inwardly as he thought of Margo. "We can be friends instead!"

Matthew smiled, gently but sincerely, at the young boy's offer of friendship. "...I'd like that."

Looking between the pair, Emily seemed to reach a decision. "Fine. You'll have to play with us, then." She said dismissively, matter-of-factly. "It can be your turn to count, Peter and I will hide."

Xx

"Well, thank you Richard, for being entirely vague. Why don't I ask if we're bankrupt and then you can reply yes or no?"

"_Don't be facetious, Mary...If you came to London, we could talk of this face to face."_

For the last hour, their conversation had been going around in circles. Mary wanted to know what was going on; Richard wasn't sure of it himself. He wanted to hear a familiar voice; she hadn't forgiven him yet. He wanted her to bring the family to London; she had no intention of going anywhere yet. Sat on her mother's bed, Mary toyed with telephone cord, bored of bickering. He was in the doghouse, why couldn't he just accept that and wait a while? But, of course, he couldn't. His wife was at Downton, as was a certain other gentleman, which left Richard Carlisle feeling insecure and defensive, putting him in a bad mood and irritating his wife.

"I thought you agreed with me, that it was best to use this as an opportunity to stay at Downton and let the children spend time with my parents." She sighed, sick of the discussion.

"_...I know I did, but I'm not sure how long I'm going to be here. It could be months."_

Months? What happened to it all being sorted in a few days? Mary smiled humourlessly. "There's no difference between you ignoring I and the children in London or here and, frankly, I'd rather stay here."

"_You'd rather be at Downton than with your husband?"_

She almost laughed at his tone. "Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind, dear. I'm glad you're coming to realise that a wife and husband have duties to one another. I've just had the rug pulled from underneath me, Richard." She sighed again, not wanting to end their call sounding so bitter. "I need time. I'll call, in a few days, you can talk to the children, then."

Knowing no good would come from pushing her, her husband relented and tried to sound more cheerful and less desperate. _"...Alright, I'll call you."_

Mary agreed and put the receiver back down. He'd called her countless times within the last few days. "You always do." She muttered, groaning as she looked at her watch. Dinner was soon and she hadn't dressed the children. Rushing along the balcony corridor and down the stairs, Mary groaned again as she snagged her evening gown. The new season had seen full-length gowns back in fashion and Mary had almost forgotten how to wear them. Unhooking the crimson velvet hem from the bottom of the stairs, she gasped as a pair of grey eyes stared at her from under a chair.

"God! Emily, you scared me!" Mary put a hand to her chest to still her beating heart. "What are you doing, hiding like that?"

Emily rolled her eyes, crawling out from under the chair. Wasn't it obvious? "We're playing hide and seek."

"Well, there isn't time for that, I'm afraid. You and Rabbit must go up and get dressed." She gently pushed her daughter in the direction of the stairs. "It's time for dinner, I've already seen your grandmother and mine glaring up at me from the grounds."

"But the Captain's playing too."

Mary frowned, impatiently. "I'm afraid that Nicholas must dress for dinner, too, now go, please, I've already asked Mrs. Hughes to find someone to help you and Rabbit dress-"

"The bear?" Emmie blurted, appalled that her mother would ever think her capable of referring to the bear as a Captain. "Oh, Mama, I didn't mean that thing, there's-"

"Emmie, please, I am too tired to argue. Don't give Granny more reason to complain that you two are to dine with us."

Her daughter frowned on the bottom step, genuinely puzzled. She and Peter had always eaten with their parents or, at least, with their mother. Mama would cut up their food and ask all about their day. "Who else would we dine with?"

"Believe it or not, most children of your age take their dinner earlier in the nursery." Mary replied. She'd been firm with her family. She ate her meals with her children, that's just how it was.

"With only Peter for company?" Emmie blinked, horrified, and was quick to capitulate. "I'll go, he's hiding in the drawing room, I think...behind a curtain."

Mary clenched her jaw, frustrated; she was not in the mood to go on some goose hunt. Not wasting any time, she marched straight to the drawing room and opened door. The sight before her stopped her beating heart altogether.

"You found me!" She saw her son squeal happily as a man, with his back to her but ever so familiar, tickled Rabbit and laughed with him. Mary bit the inside of her lip; Rabbit had never laughed so freely with Richard. Did the Gods hate her or something? Did they feel the need to give her a glimpse of what she was missing? To see her shy little Rabbit so open and happy with a man who was a complete stranger to him? To see her son so at ease with Matthew?

"Yes, I found you, but you were so hard to find!" Matthew laughed, allowing the boy to catch his breath. They'd only been playing for half an hour and yet Peter had given his friendship so completely. Shall we look for Emily together?"

"I sent Emily up to change for dinner."

Matthew spun around at the voice from the doorway. There she was. A vision in red. She was always a vision in red, and suddenly it was 1913, it was 1916, it was 1920, it was the woman who'd both made and ruined his life, who'd haunted his dreams. There was only word to sum up how he felt. "...Mary."

"Mama!" Peter ran up to his mother, reaching up to hug her around the waist, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room. "This is Captain Matthew! He fought the Germans and he's very good at hiding and finding people, you know! He found Nicholas, too!"

Mary breathed deeply; Rabbit thought him wonderful, she knew he would. Feeling uncomfortable under Matthew's relentless stare, she smiled down at her son. "...I'm glad that you and Cousin Matthew have had a nice time, now, go upstairs and dress for dinner."

"But, Mama-"

She stroked her son's face, but her gaze brooked no argument. "Off you go, Rabbit."

Her son nodded and waved goodbye to his new friend, holding on to his old friend - Nicholas now back where he belonged – and ran out of the room, leaving Mary and Matthew alone together. They hadn't been alone together since...Matthew wracked his brain, since Lavinia's funeral. How times flies and yet, she hadn't changed a day. Still as breathtaking as she'd always been. He tried to smile, to think of something to say, but Mary's expression was unreadable.

"...rabbit?" He asked, innocently.

"Oh," The ghost of a smile graced her lips for the first time since Peter left the room. "Yes, as in Peter Rabbit. He loved the book and the name just...stuck, I guess."

"Ah, I thought young Peter's middle name was in honour of a particular butler, not Rabbit." He raised an eyebrow, smiling.

Finally, she returned it in kind. "Carson cornered you, then."

"No, it was..." He couldn't imagine old Carson cornering anyone. "...it was sweet really, he looked terribly proud."

"Good, it's why I did it." She seemed satisfied, but Matthew was left bereft as the smile left her face. " I'd hoped for _Robert_ Carson, at first, but Richard didn't want to name Rabbit after Papa. They don't really get along..." She trailed off, suddenly remembering who she was talking to. She didn't particularly want to discuss her husband with Matthew. "How are you?"

"Oh, fine..." He gave the standard answer. He gave in and looked at her, appraisingly. "You look well."

"As do you." And he did. The years had been good to him. With a decade, he hadn't ceased to be handsome; in fact, he looked like a man in his prime. And that longing, which she'd safely kept locked away started to bubble away and lodged itself in her throat as she saw it reflected in his eyes. She shook her head of it. "...I should really go, save a defenceless maid from having to dress my children." She joked.

"Yes," He smiled, understandingly, "and they're lovely...very lovely children, by the by," She smiled at the compliment. He swallowed. "...It's good to have you home, Mary."

_Home_. Yes, she was home. She'd returned in the hope that all her problems would be resolved, but something told Mary that her problems were just beginning. Home was where the heart was; she just wished that her home could be a house like everybody else's.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

__Thank you so much for your reviews, keep them coming! It's good to know which bits you like so I can jig where the story goes. Hope you enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter Three:<strong>

_1__st__ December, 1929._

"Mama!"

"Well, if you would only stop fidgeting..."

Mary sighed, squinting at the hem of her daughter's skirt. Dear God, she didn't need glasses, did she? Emily fidgeted, excitedly, as her mother adjusted her uniform, her _school_ uniform. It had been over a month since they had arrived at Downton. All of her family had quickly fallen back into the habit of treating her as they always had, as if there was no Sir Richard and she was the same unmarried Mary Crawley with the sharp tongue and the dry wit. Her mother had already seen to it that she be put back into her old room and was now talking of redecorating the nursery for Emily and Peter. It certainly hadn't helped matters that Richard's calls had become less frequent. His pleas for her to come to London had disappeared and their conversations had begun to fill up with uncomfortable silences instead of harsh words. Mary was irate; her life was up in the air and Richard was not being forthcoming with answers. However, to her knowledge, no one had mentioned Haxby being repossessed so she could only assume her husband was managing to tread water. What really angered Mary, however, was his blatant disregard for the children – too many nights had Emmy climbed into her mother's bed, sobbing at the thought that her father wasn't coming back. Her daughter had been restless with too much time for her own thoughts, so Mary did what she thought was best – and what she knew would make Richard furious – and enrolled Emily as a day student at Queen Anne's Preparatory School. Footing the bill from her own private account, Mary didn't see the need to tell Richard. If he wasn't going to tell her anything of importance, why should she return the compliment?

Queen Anne's had been recommended to her by Edith; it was Margo's school. The Strallans liked to dinner at Downton once a week and it was clear to Mary and her children that Edith and Margo had become quite used to being the only daughter and granddaughter, respectively. Glancing up at her mother, who sat happily doing some needlework, she considered that Mama and Edith certainly seemed to get on better. They knew all the same people and as Lady Edith Strallan, the middle Crawley sister had truly become a force of good in the county. Mary didn't have it in her to begrudge her that. It was ironic, really. Sometimes, their parents had wondered if Edith would ever marry and, in the end, she'd made the most prudent match of them all. However, and to Cora's annoyance, marriage hadn't resulted in the two sisters being any nicer to each other. Treated like a child by her parents and resenting her absent husband had made some of Mary's comments even more cutting than usual and, with regards to her sister's situation, Edith certainly seemed more smug than consoling. And now, with Peter spending more time with his grandfather and Matthew, Emily and Margo had ample opportunity to take bites at one another: the former figuratively, the latter literally.

Mary, knelt on the drawing room floor, leant back on her heels tiredly, as her daughter spun around happily. Cora grinned, pleased at the sight. So happy to go school. Emily was so intelligent, Mary had no doubt that her daughter was capable of great things. She could become a doctor, like her Aunt Sybil, or a writer – Mary's thoughts trailed off, and she smiled up lazily, as her grandmother entered. Violet never joined them for breakfast, but – like a true lady of leisure – appeared mid-morning, scowl in place.

"Oh, good morning, Granny-"

"What are you wearing?"

"It's Emily's uniform, Granny." Mary frowned at Violet's tone, unwilling to argue with her grandmother about why girls should go to school "Madame Swan supposedly fitted it, but unless Emmy suddenly sprouted three inches during the fitting, she hasn't done a very good job."

Cora sighed sadly, glancing at her granddaughter's uniform."Poor old Madame Swan."

"Old being the operative word, Mama." Mary muttered, ignoring Emily's protests as she was forcibly turned around. "We were calling her _old_ Madame Swan when she made my debutante gown, and she was blind as a bat back then-"

"I was talking about you, Mary." Violet interrupted, and gestured with her cane. Disgust crept into her voice. "What are _they_?"

_Oh_. Mary glanced down sheepishly. "Trousers."

"I see," She didn't need to say more than that to make it clear how she felt about said trousers. "Do you plan to wear them to dinner?"

"...Not anymore." Mary smiled, as the corners of her grandmother's mouth twitched in response. Emily groaned, bored. "Hush, you." Mary got up and frowned in concentration to check the hem was straight. Her smile broadened further; she should have been a seamstress. "There! All done."

Emmy grinned and hugged her mother's waist. "I'm a schoolgirl!"

Mary grinned back down at her and brushed her daughter's hair out of her face. "Yes, you are."

Cora's eyes softened at the sight. "Margo will look out for you, don't you worry." Violet barked a laugh as Emily's head turned sharply to her grandmother and the grin left her face.

Mary half-heartedly glared at Cora, before reassuring her daughter. "...Well, yes, but she's younger so you two won't be in the same classes." Cora sighed unhappily, as her little granddaughter pouted and proceeded to sit next to her Granny Violet, her legs swinging back and forth. The look on the girl's face said it all; there was no love lost between Emmy and Margo.

Violet smiled and patted Emmy's arm sympathetically before a thought suddenly occurred to her. She looked at Mary, who sat on the floor collecting all the needles and thread. "You had better go outside and save your son, my dear."

"Save him from who?"

Emmy pulled a face. "Uncle Anthony is teaching Peter about tractors."

Violet grimaced and leant forward on her cane. "Poor boy, ask that man one question and he'll talk at you for hours."

Cora put her needlework beside her and looked up at the ceiling, begging for patience; why couldn't everyone simply get along? "Mama, please..."

"But Grandmama, he _is_ boring," Emmy insisted, without malice but decidedly, "yesterday he was talking about sugar beet..." At the blank look on everyone's faces, she elaborated. "He's glad that he started growing it after the war. Apparently, the stocks are up."

Mary bit her lip to stop from grinning. "I think your grandfather had to have that same talk as well."

Cora looked at her daughter warningly; it was certainly easy to tell off Mary than her mother-in-law. "Oh, _Mary_..."

"What?" Mary laughed, incredulously, coming to sit opposite her mother. "I can hardly scold her for observing, quite correctly I would say, that Edith's husband is a dull as dishwater." She held up a hand to stop her mother's protests. "I'm not saying he isn't a nice man, but really Mama, _sugar_ _beet_?"

"Grandmama!" They all turned to the door as a small vision in a blue coat flew at Cora, her blonde hair trailing behind her. Edith soon followed her and sat in an armchair, removing her gloves. In the last ten years, Edith hadn't really aged. She seemed to have grown into her face and look, enjoying the low waists and shorter dresses. She'd tried to emulate Louise Brooks' bob for a while, which had been a disaster, but now she looked very well. It was so much easier to look well when one was generally better contented with one's life.

"Hello sweetheart," Cora smiled broadly, placing Margo on her lap. "Edith darling."

"Mama, Granny..." Edith greeted, glancing at Mary. She turned to her niece. "Don't you look nice Emily, Margo will help you make lots of new friends tomorrow, won't you? Darling, show your grandmother your lovely picture."

"Well, isn't that splendid?" Cora smiled as Margo presented a crudely drawn picture of Downton with many stick figures and their names written below. Emily made her way over, and leant on the sofa arm to get a better look. "A picture of the whole family!"

"No, it isn't." Emily corrected them, immediately. "Where's father?"

Margo rolled her eyes and pointed to a stick man. "Papa's there."

"No, _my_ father."

Mary raised an eyebrow at Edith, unsurprised. Of everyone, Edith had been consistently the most vocal to criticise Richard. Cora smiled reassuringly. "I'm sure there just wasn't room on the page, dear-"

"Don't look at me like that. It's not my drawing." Edith said, defensively, glaring at her sister. "How is she supposed to draw a man she's met probably twice in her whole life? Is Richard even going to wave his daughter off on her first day to school?" Mary flinched at that, Edith sighed smugly. "Didn't think so. At this rate, I'll be surprised if he turns up for Christmas-"

"Emmy, would you go and change out of your uniform, please?" Mary ignored her sister as she saw the colour drain from her daughter's face at the idea of her father not coming for Christmas. "Take Margo with you and go play in the nursery..." Mary sighed, as her daughter sat, agape, looking at her Aunt Edith. Mary leant forward and touched her cheek to garner her attention. "...Emmy, darling..."

Slowly looking at her Mama, Emily sighed, her voice dropping to a whisper. "...I'd rather go see Carson..."

"The butler?" Margo blinked.

"Alright," Mary smiled at her daughter, knowing Carson would soon cheer her up. "Try not to eat too many biscuits before lunch." Emily nodded and left the room, Margo soon followed her, her eyes lighting up at the idea of biscuits.

The smile left her face as her daughter left the room, Mary looked hard at her sister. "I don't want to hear words like that again."

"Girls, please," Cora interjected, eager to stop an argument before it started, "...really, Mary, it's been a month," Mary looked incredulously at her mother; she was taking Edith's side, "he hasn't even called this week to talk to the children-"

"He's scared, no doubt." Edith supplied. "He's probably lost all their money and he's dreading telling Mary. You cannot simply expect Mama and Papa to look after you and your children, they are already taking care of Granny-"

"_Granny_ can take care of herself, thank you very much." Violet said firmly. "Whatever your opinions, Edith, you keep them to yourself. Richard is Mary's husband and the father of your niece and nephew, the least you can do is curb your tongue."

Edith swallowed a little at being rebuked, but was hardly surprised. Granny often sided with Mary. "Why should I? If Mary can call my husband dull, then I don't see why-"

"I did, I'm sorry," Mary admitted, realising that Edith had caught the last of their conversation, "...and I would be beyond mortified if your daughter had heard that. Insult Richard behind his back, fine!" Mary glared, knowing her sister did it often. "I know you have nothing better to do with your time, but I will not have you insulting him in front of my children again." Edith glanced at the floor, slightly ashamed.

"She understands, my darling." Cora said, soothingly. "Just...I don't want him making things awkward at Christmas."

Mary shook her head in wonderment, her eyes wide. "I've always known he wasn't exactly your favourite son-in-law, but give Richard the opportunity to act priggish before you condemn him! God, I cannot wait for Sybil to arrive. Maybe her former chauffeur of a husband will provide you and Papa with some fresh meat!"

Violet scoffed. "Well, seeing as Sybil won't be arriving until late January at the earliest, you'll have quite the wait, my dear."

"What?" Mary's eyes widened further, glancing between them. "Sybil's not coming for Christmas?"

"Didn't I mention that?" Cora grimaced. "Tom's mother hasn't seen Imogen yet and they feel she's old enough to travel, so they'll be spending Christmas in Ireland this year. Sybil didn't tell you on the telephone?"

"No, she bloody didn't," Mary sighed, her frustration getting the better of her. Sybil had a knack for easing tension and was the only Crawley who refused to say a bad word about Richard, in front of Mary and the children, at least. Mary pinched the bridge of her nose and smiled, half-heartedly. "I don't see how you expect Edith and I to carry our team to victory in charades without Sybil..." She trailed off as another look of guilt came across her mother's face. A sudden question crossed Mary's mind. "Don't give me that look, Mama..."

Edith answered her question. "We're spending Christmas with Anthony's brother and his family in Devon."

Mary's jaw dropped in disbelief. "...So, Richard, myself and the children are to have Christmas here with you _alone_? Not even Aunt Rosamund plus guest in order to keep us on our best behaviour?"

"Well, we wanted to throw your husband to the wolves without distractions, dear." Granny supplied, smiling. "I suppose one cannot simply turn down an invitation to spend Christmas at Cliveden, but what Nancy Astor and my daughter have in common, leaves us all guessing..." She trailed off with her own thoughts and sighed dramatically, "...never mind, that it could be my _last_ Christmas..."

"Don't worry," Edith looked at her sister, amused. "Matthew and Isobel will be here, too."

Mary groaned; so, it _could_ get worse. A Christmas with Matthew and Richard. All the snide comments from her family, Richard had taken on the chin - or, more likely, thrown them back in their faces – but he had never once abused them in front of his wife or his children. When Peter extolled the many virtues of his dear Grandpapa, Richard would agree and smile. Having only an unmarried sister, he was happy for his children to have an extended family which they loved and could rely upon. But talk of Matthew...it was as if Richard reverted to that resentful man all those years ago, desperately clinging on to his fiancée. It had never left him that he hadn't been Mary's choice, but rather her only option. Richard had thought that it was of little consequence and, as their relationship had improved and grown over time, he'd thought himself above it, but it still niggled away at him. It was sad, really. She'd been with him for ten years, had his children – shared a life with him – and yet, Richard Carlisle was waiting for the day that she upped and left him for Matthew Crawley.

Cora sighed at her daughter's groan, wistfully – yet ashamedly – thinking back to war, when everyone pulled together and got along. "You two used to be such good friends."

* * *

><p><em>2nd December, 1929.<em>

Good friends, that was the most that he could hope for, but he doubted they could even achieve that. Matthew was pulled out of his thoughts as he looked down at the young boy before him, who was carefully choosing between rocks. They were out on one of the surrounding fields, helping to build a stone wall. He supposed that some of the farm lads could have tended to it, but he had no cases at the office at the moment and little Peter looked so upset, all alone, his sister now at school. He'd grown so used to having the boy around; he seemed to follow him everywhere, with a question or a desire to help. Captain Matthew could do no wrong. Robert, of course, encouraged the relationship, determined that his grandson didn't have enough suitable male role models in his life, but Cora and Violet were slightly more cautious seeming to be more aware that Mary might face repercussions from Richard. Mary's opinion, however, was unknown to Matthew. Since they'd first bumped into each other, she seemed to be doing her best to avoid him and he didn't have the heart to seek her out. She wasn't aloof or dismissive – she responded to his questions at dinner and inquired about his own life – as to give anyone any cause for concern, but he could feel that she was keeping her distance. He'd often seen her standing at a window, watching as he and Peter played in the garden, but she'd never said anything. Emily, meanwhile, was quicker to make her displeasure known. The little girl was puzzled as to her brother's obsession with Matthew and didn't understand how a man, to whom she was barely related and who had only been mentioned here and there, was such an integral part of the Crawley family. It didn't help that Emily thought that he looked at her mother far too much.

Glancing around, Matthew froze as he espied a car parked up along the road bordering the field. He didn't need to look too hard to know it was Mary. She'd driven Emily to school and now she was observing the two of them. Knowing she'd been spotted, she got out of the car and cautiously made her over, careful to avoid muddier patches of grass. He took his hat off and ran a nervous hand through his hair.

"...hello," Matthew ventured, "how are you?"

Mary opened her mouth to answer, but was quickly distracted by her son. "Mama, look! I'm helping Matthew build a wall, I'm a builder!"

"I can see that." Mary smiled, before glancing at her son's state of dress. "You have mud all over your trousers."

"Sorry," Matthew quickly apologised; she frowned, it was hardly his fault that her son couldn't keep anything clean. He swallowed nervously and gestured to the wall. "...do you want to help?"

"No, no, you two seem to have it under control," She smiled as her son walked the length of the wall, counting the rocks they'd put down. She stepped closer, and dropped her voice. "...you're thick as thieves these days..."

"...yes." Matthew agreed, carefully. As to whether she was angry or pleased, he couldn't tell. "He's quite something. Funny and, by God, he's caring. We were play fighting just the other day and I pretended to go down and Rabbit nearly cried at the idea that I might be hurt-"

"He lets you call him Rabbit?" She blurted, completely caught off guard.

Matthew opened his mouth and then closed it again. He frowned. "...Is that a problem?"

A problem? She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The only people Peter allowed to call him Rabbit were his parents. She sighed inwardly, what was it about bloody Matthew Crawley that latched onto the heart and refused to let go? "...No, no, not at all...it's just he's usually very particular about who..." She trailed off, grimacing a little. "You won't call him Rabbit in front of Richard, will you?"

"Of course not, whatever you want..." He assured her, not wanting to be the cause of any of her problems. Seeing her from afar during this last month had been so difficult, it reminded him of how much he'd missed her company over the years. He had to bite the bullet; he had to make things better. "Mary, I had...well, I was hoping to talk to you before, but there never seemed to be a good moment..." He noticed her frown. "Something wrong?"

She smiled a little, nodding at his face. "...Y-you've got mud, just there, I'll..." She stretched up and wiped the smudge on his cheek and forced a bright smile. "There! Much better!"

He was about to ask to be friends, but one touch of his face was enough to tell him they would never be that, not really. She meant so much more. He smiled in thanks and felt his cheeks burn. "...I know we haven't stayed in touch over the years, but...you're important to me, Mary, and I would very much like to have your friendship again – if that's agreeable to you, of course!"

Again, her reply was cut off, as Rabbit made demands on her. "Mama! Look, a worm! I shall call him Walter...Walter the Fourth!"

"The Fourth?" Matthew asked, bemused that Mary hadn't recoiled but instead was feigning interest. The result of having a son, no doubt.

"Really Matthew, you think this is the first worm that Rabbit has..." She grinned, trailing off as she looked closer at the creature in her son's hand. "Darling, that's not quite a worm."

"Yes, it is." Peter insisted.

"No," Mary said patiently, "it's _half_ a worm."

"But it's wiggling!"

"Well, remember, worm's can survive being cut in half!" She reminded him. "We both learnt that when you tried to cut up Walter II's food." Matthew barked a laugh and she narrowed her eyes in return. "And _then_ you tried to see if your pet snail would survive being cut in half and well, what did we learn that time?"

Rabbit sighed, sadly, in remembrance. "...half a snail doesn't wiggle..."

Matthew shook his head, failing to smother a grin and caught Mary's eye in amusement. They could be friends again, he knew they could. "So much for being caring, Rabbit."

* * *

><p>Sipping her afternoon tea, Violet briefly glanced at her son who stood, gazing out on to the grounds, hands behind his back. "I've invited Georgina Litton to our Winter Ball. I was speaking to Lady Nichols and apparently the girl is very charming - something tells me Miss Litton wouldn't be quite so charming without her inheritance, but I'll save my judgements until we meet her." Violet declared magnanimously, as Lord Grantham rolled his eyes. "<em>Mrs<em>. Litton is set on her daughter having a title, so I'm sure..." She trailed off unhappily, displeased that she wasn't speaking to her son's face. "What is _so_ interesting outside, Robert?"

Robert drew his gaze from the three figures outside and came to sit opposite his mother. "...Nothing, nothing at all." He said apologetically, though his eyes were still drawn to the window. "Richard called me this morning."

"Ah, and what did that malingerer want?" She shrugged at her son's look of surprise. "Well, really, what sort of man completely abandons his family to attend to business for this long, it's not acceptable..."

"Cora said you rebuked her for speaking badly of him."

"In front of the children, yes," Violet said firmly, not liking the insinuation of being a hypocrite, "but we're alone and you're not going to say anything," He gave a reluctant tilt of the head in acknowledgement. "Everyone must stop complaining about him in front of _Mary_, as well."

"I'm not going to lie to my daughter – and, besides, Mary's hardly his biggest fan at the moment."

"_At the moment_ is precisely my point." She insisted, stirring her cup. "If you leave Mary to come to her own conclusions, she's willing to stand up to the man, but if anyone dares to share their disapproval, she defends him to the end – she's a good wife," Violet acceded, before turning her nose up at her son's turn of phrase "... and fan is such an awful word, so American."

Robert frowned, confused. "But you're always saying that they're married and that's that, why should she stand up to him?"

"Because, Robert," Violet answered, impatiently, as if speaking to a small child, "I want my granddaughter and great-grandchildren where I can see them! Mary would happily live out her life here, she's a country girl at heart and she loves Downton, but that _snake_ of a man will do all he can to whisk her off to London permanently or worse, take her back to New York." Robert sighed, that was certainly food for thought. They'd all grown so used to having Mary back. It brought a smile to everyone's faces to hear children's laughter filling the corridors of Downton once more. The clattering of her mother's cup against the saucer broke his reverie. "Well?"

"Well what?"

His mother rolled her eyes. "You said that he telephoned, what about?"

"He'll be coming to visit in a few days. I invited him to stay, of course, I think it'll be a very short stay, but he wants to open Haxby." He sighed, unhappily. "I know he doesn't like Mary staying here. He's always trying to divide us, Mama! Keep Mary from where she belongs, from her family!

"My boy, you are her father," She reassured him. "Richard knows that – by God, you never let him forget it – and he has no wish to keep Mary from you. Despite anyone's opinion, he's always done his best to make my granddaughter happy." She reluctantly conceded, before addressing what they all knew to be true. "The reason he tries to keep her from where she belongs, however - well, need I even say it? It's what kept you gormlessly looking out of the window." Robert nodded, absentmindedly, as he glanced back outside. His eldest daughter and his surrogate son both engrossed in conversation, Peter upon Matthew's shoulders; the three of them making their way back to the house. Violet sighed at her son's wistful expression. "Gosh, Richard must really be on the verge of bankruptcy. He couldn't stand the idea of Mary and Matthew living in the same country, I'm surprised that he hasn't had a stroke at the idea of them sat side by side at dinner!"

* * *

><p>Dinner that evening had been a pleasant affair until dessert. Isobel and Violet had begged off; Mrs. Crawley was hosting a dinner for the hospital board and Violet insisted on going. All these years later and Dr. Clarkson was counting the days to retirement. Uncle Anthony had an appointment to keep with an old Cambridge chum and had only stayed for pre-dinner drinks. Being such a regular fixture, the man wasn't particularly missed, but that wasn't to say Sir Anthony wasn't well-liked. He was so polite and generous, Cora and Robert had grown to like the man very much. All helped by the fact that Anthony took great care of his family and seemed to make Edith happy. And the man certainly stood well in comparison. Richard was not liked at the best of times and loathed at the worst and, despite Tom Branson's being a very pleasant young man, he would always be the servant who snatched their baby girl.<p>

So, it had been the Granthams, Mary, Edith, the children and Matthew for dinner. Margo and Emmy had both made a conscious effort to get along, but fighting seemed so much easier. Margo thought Emmy mean for not wanting to play or do things together and Emmy had no plans to plan with a girl who, as an only child, was completely unwilling to compromise or do anything that wasn't in her self-interest. And if Emmy wasn't going to play, Margo had to find someone or something else to play with.

"You give that bear back to Peter right now." Emmy demanded of her cousin who sat in between herself and Peter.

"Why?" Margo frowned, patting Peter's small hands away. "You don't like it!"

"Margo, please," Edith sighed at her daughter. "I have a headache..."

"Give my brother back his bear!" Emmy said indignantly, reaching for it.

"Mama!" Peter cried. "She's hurting Nicholas!"

"No need to worry," Matthew said comfortingly. "Nicholas is tough, he's a Captain."

"It can't feel, stupid!" Margo glared at Peter.

Robert put down his cutlery, irritated. "Don't call your cousin that, Margo – give him the bear otherwise you shall all be excused."

"But, Grandpapa," Margo pleaded. "I want the bear."

"It's not yours!" Emmy shouted.

Mary shushed her daughter and looked calmly at her niece. "Why do you want it? You already have lots of toys, all of them cleaner and newer than Peter's old bear."

"Because I just do."

Suddenly memories of Edith snatching her little dog flooded her, always feeling as if she was missing out, as if everything had to be shared. Mary sighed. "Well, I'm sorry Margo, but that isn't a justification for having Nicholas - we can't always have everything we want in life. Give Peter the bear, please."

Emmy nodded in agreement, snatching the bear from Margo's grasp. "As Mrs. Turner always says – this is just one of lives many lessons."

Margo glared at her older cousin. "You think you're so much better than me, but you're not! I'll cry if you don't give it back, Peter can have one of my other toys! I want this one!"

"You'll _cry_?" Emmy said incredulously, taking offensive at the very idea that anyone would _make_ themselves cry. She scoffed. "Fine, shall I help you? I'm sure a smack on the arm would get you crying, Goldilocks!" Margo screamed at the nickname and went for the bear. Mary tried to stop them tussling, but not before Emmy let out a yelp as Margo sunk her teeth into her arm.

"What on earth – girls, enough!" Cora demanded, her voice rising.

"She bit me!" Emmy complained incredulously, too shocked to cry.

Peter's tears were coming thick and fast. "Mama, please-"

"Breathe," Mary soothed her son, "it's alright, just – Margaret Cora Strallan, you give me that bear this instant!"

"Mama!" Margo complained.

"Oh, you little..." Mary muttered, earning a twitch of a smile from Matthew.

"Sweetheart, don't cry," Edith consoled her daughter over the table, she looked at Mary hopefully, "just...can't he share the bear?"

"We don't bite," Cora looked at her granddaughter firmly. "Margo, no."

"Alright, that's enough, Peter – my young man, come here!" Peter got up from his seat and made his way, sobbing, to his grandfather. Placing him on his lap, Robert wiped the tears from his face with his napkin. "Yes, I know, bed for you I think...why, girls, let's all go upstairs and we'll read-"

"No!" Emmy said, affronted, not planning on going anywhere with Margo.

Her mother sighed. "Emily, don't speak to your grandfather-"

"Margo bit me – look!" She held out her arm and Mary clenched her jaw at the teeth marks.

"Margo-"

"Mary," Edith interrupted her sister, "I'll speak to her-"

But Mary ignored her, her voice brooking no argument. "_Margo_, give me the bear, and apologise to your cousin."

Edith blinked, slighted. "I can discipline my daughter without you, thank you-"

"Edith, she _bit_my daughter!" Mary's voice rose, tired and getting angry. Anthony never scolded his daughter for anything and, as long as Margo wasn't biting adults, Edith seemed unfazed. This was the third time Emmy had been bitten this month and this bite was certainly going to leave bruises. "She's seven years-old, not a teething baby!"

"I know," Edith agreed, "but these two have been bickering all day and if I know your daughter..."

The tension could be cut with a knife as Edith left the rest of that sentence unfinished . Mary's voice turned to ice. "If you know my daughter – what?"

"They're children and children fight." Cora interjected, her own voice dangerously low, her teeth gritted. "You are the mothers, set an example."

"I asked you a question." Mary demanded.

"Well, Emily can be rude and likes to goad." Edith finally admitted. "Like mother, like daughter. Though her behaviour's hardly surprising, what with you fraying around the edges!"

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Clearly," Edith started, patronisingly, "you're taking your anger out on me because your husband's left you in the lurch-"

"_Not_ in front of the children, please!" Robert interrupted, remembering his mother's advice. "Girls, let's go upstairs, we can-"

"Would you leave Richard out of this?" Mary slammed her wine glass down, fed up with how often they blamed her husband for everything. If it rained, it would surely be Richard's fault.

"I don't have to! He's left himself out of this family – look around, Mary, where is he?" Edith scoffed. "You _say_ it's business, but-"

Mary blinked, whispering. "How dare you even insinuate..."

"Mama..." Emmy glanced up at her mother worriedly, not entirely understanding what her Aunt Edith was talking about.

Hearing little Emily's tone spurred her grandfather into action. Peter in his arms, he looked at Carson who immediately helped ushering Emily out. "Right, up to bed, we go..." He said, trying to sound cheerful. He looked at his wife, seriously, who looked inclined to stay. "..._Cora_..." Realising it was fruitless to try to stop them from scratching their eyes out, Cora took Margo by the hand and began to follow her husband out the door.

Matthew blinked, as everyone seemed to disappear, and went to stand. "Perhaps I should-"

"No, Matthew, you stay right there." Cora said, decidedly. "Do you see how uncomfortable you are making your cousin, check your behaviour!"

The two sisters briefly looked at Matthew, ashamedly, before an uncomfortable silence settled. It didn't settle for long, however, Edith had always been a stickler for having the last word.

She went back to eating her dessert. "...I didn't think you'd care if it wasn't business, it was hardly a love match between the two of you..."

Mary shook her head, in awe of her sister's audacity. She frowned, feigning interest. "Has Margo ever apologised...for anything? Or do you and Anthony let her get away with murder?"

"_Anthony and I_ have never had any complaints." Edith smiled with an air of superiority. "It's just _your_ children that seem to ruffle feathers, but - I sympathise, you're mostly parenting alone, it's no wonder your children are..." She trailed off, somewhat smugly as she saw Mary's hand tighten around her glass, "...never mind, when it comes to raising children, two heads are better than one, that's all. Richard, I suppose, isn't the fatherly kind, he doesn't-"

A fist banged the table. "Edith, that is enough!" Edith looked up surprised, as her rebuke came from an unlikely source. Both sisters looked, wide-eyed, at Matthew. "Richard is your brother-in-law and, considering Emily and Peter's yearning for his return, I would happen to think that he is, in fact, a very good father."

Edith swallowed, but fought to hide her embarrassment. Matthew was back to defending Mary, how predictable. "...Y-yes, well, hopefully I'll be given the chance to see for myself at some point..."

Mary wiped her mouth with her napkin and sighed, nonchalantly. "Well, Edith, if having two devoted parents such as your good self and Anthony produces your pit bull of a daughter, then perhaps it is best if Richard stays away."

* * *

><p><em>3<em>_rd__ December, 1929._

And with that, Edith was silenced. Now, the next day, Edith and Mama had gone off to a charity meeting and paid calls, whilst Mary sat outside in the winter sunshine, left licking her wounds. She'd grown so accustomed to the usual complaints against Richard that she'd learnt to bite her tongue, but in the last month, all her family's comments had hurt. They hurt because they hit a nerve. She _was_ worried. Worried about their financial situation, as to why he'd been gone so long and was telephoning less and less, as to the effect Richard's absence was having on the children and, lastly, she was worried as to how he would react when he saw Matthew. She could only help it would sort itself out when Richard returned. Mary sighed, knowing she shouldn't bother holding her breath.

Hands in her coat pockets, she smiled as the children took it in turns being swung in the air by Anthony. Margo and Emmy were all smiles; children could bounce back so easily. She smiled in greeting, as Matthew came into view and his eyes lit up at seeing her. Doffing his hat, he came and sat beside her on the bench, _their_ bench, she supposed.

"The prodigal son returns. I thought we'd scared you off last night."

"It'll take more than that, I assure you." He grinned, before sobering. "Were the children alright?"

"Yes, thank you. Peter was more than content when Nicholas was returned to his rightful owner, Emmy looked quite forlorn about it all, but she was soon grinning when I told her that her father would be coming to Downton in a couple of days."

Matthew nodded, preparing himself. Richard was hardly going to stay away forever. "And you? How do you feel after it all?"

"As if I've gone ten rounds with Jack Dempsey."

Matthew grinned, again. "Somehow I'm strangely comforted that, ten years later, you and Edith are still at each other's throats."

Mary shrugged, but her smile dimmed. "I don't know, she's bitter – she feels that she's missed out on something, I think." Edith and she had never got on well, but Mary knew that the two of them were more similar than either would like to admit. "Sybil's lived in Ireland and London, she's been a nurse and she's been to university in order to qualify as a doctor." Mary smiled again, this time in awe at her little sister. "I've travelled and lived in New York, with all the _supposed_ glamour that that entails...and Edith moved down the road. With Richard trying to save us from ruin, I think Edith believes that I've finally got my just deserts." Mary pondered, matter-of-factly. "She thinks I'm a greedy snob and this is what comes from marrying for mercenary reasons."

"She doesn't think like that, I'm sure." Matthew assured her, nudging her shoulder, saddened to hear Mary's assumption of her sister's opinion. "Well, if it is, you certainly gave her a tongue lashing – _pit bull of a daughter, _do you think she'll ever talk to you again?"

Mary bit her lip, smiling at that. "Not for some time, with any luck." She sighed, "I know Emmy has been ignoring Margo and teasing her because it's easy, but that child..." She shook her head, tiredly, before raising her eyebrows thoughtfully. "I could always buy my niece a muzzle for Christmas."

Matthew grinned. At hearing squeals and laughter, they looked back at the children who were proceeding to run away from a very middle-aged and out-of-breath Sir Anthony. Matthew's eyes flickered back to Mary's as he caught her staring. He looked at her questioningly.

"...thank you – for what you said to Edith." She smiled, softly. "I know that you and Richard haven't exactly been the best of friends, but I appreciated your support."

"Well," Matthew conceded, amusement in his voice, "maybe I'm wrong about Richard – Rabbit's an angel, and he certainly doesn't get that from you!"

She smacked him playfully. "I might have been just like Rabbit as a child!"

"Oh please," Matthew laughed, not believing her for a second. "Let's not pretend you aren't Emily, through and through. I do remember what you were like when I first arrived, you know." He glanced back at the children. "She can hold her own, Emily."

"That she can." Smiling as she caught her son's eye and they waved at each other. "I'm sorry that she hasn't exactly warmed to you."

"Nonsense, we've only known each other a month." He waved her off. "I've grown quite fond of seeing her suspicious eyes glare at me," Mary barked a laugh. "- it'll be all the more worth it when I do win her over."

"_When_?" She raised an eyebrow. "A little confident, aren't we?"

"Well, you fell for me once, I'm hoping Edith's right: like mother, like daughter." He smiled, before realising what he'd said.

She smiled in reassurance, not wanting him to feel uneasy. "...Did you mean it before? About us being friends?"

He nodded, slowly, his eyes hopeful. "...Yes, I did."

"And that's how you see me?" She asked, genuinely intrigued. "– As a friend."

He frowned, guardedly. "Mary, what are you-"

"I'm exhausted, Matthew, in so many ways." She shrugged. "Pretending to be something you're not is draining. I'd rather have your honesty than your friendship - You and I, we're not friends, not really."

He looked surprised, but nodded. "...we're more than cousins though, surely?" He ventured.

"But never quite lovers..." She said softly; his eyes darted to her eyes. "We're indefinable, let's leave it at that, shall we?"

"I still love you."

The words were out of his mouth before he'd even thought about them, but she had said that she wanted honesty. He looked down, shyly at his hands. "...that is, actually, I'm still very much..._in love_ with you..." He glanced at her, but she gave nothing away.

Mary smiled. "...thank you..."

"Excuse me?"

"For...for being candid about it, I suppose. I spent a war trying to convince myself, you and everyone else that you were my friend and nothing more and it was..." She smiled humourlessly and sighed. "...well, it was frankly soul-destroying." She titled her head and looked searching into his face. He swallowed as her gaze caressed his face. "It's nice that you still feel that way, it makes my story certainly sound less tragic – I love you too, you know."

It was said so frankly, as if she was describing the weather and yet it still took his breath away. She'd never said those words to him before. "...You do?"

"Yes, always have, probably always will." She admitted, before looking at him concerned. "You will try to settle though, won't you? I do so want you to be happy."

He thought back to the war and Lavinia and the lovely woman sat before him. "Oh, I gave up on being happy a long time ago," he said, dismissively, " - are you? Happy, that is."

"I am." She said, without hesitation. He tried not to flinch. "Not all the time, but I'm happy. Just a kiss from Rabbit, a smile from Emmy," She smiled wistfully, as she looked back at the children. "I love being a mother, more than I thought I would."

"...And Richard?" He couldn't help but ask.

"He tries to make me happy," She answered, honestly, "he _wants_ me to be happy – I couldn't ask for more than that. We're well-suited, I think, and we both have our faults, but he's the father of my children and all that he does, he does for us." He nodded, understandingly. She smiled, trying to wipe the pensive look which had suddenly crossed his face. "Granny and Mama are both hoping your future wife awaits you at the Winter Ball...you'll find someone..."

"Are you saying this for my benefit or your own?"

She sighed, hating that he was starting to sound bitter. "Everything you've been through, Matthew, you deserve to be happy and have that family life – you're going to make such a wonderful father-"

"I'm not," He stopped himself and started again. "...marriage, I don't know if it's for me. Can't I just spend the next forty years trying to break the entail and then leave everything to Rabbit?" It was meant as a joke, but it got him thinking. Why not, if he never had children?

She reproached him, gently. "Matthew..."

"I know, I know," He wiped a tired hand over his face. "...I just need to stop picturing you when I think about a wife, don't I?"

She smiled understandingly and he returned it, but there was nothing she could say to that. She turned to face her daughter as she walked towards them. Emmy briefly smiled at Matthew – he grinned at the improvement in their relationship – and came to sit by her mother's side, tucking up her legs underneath her. Mary put an arm around her and played with her hair as Emmy sucked her thumb, an old habit she couldn't shake when she was tired.

"Hello sweetheart, you and Margo have been playing very nicely, I see!"

Emmy raised an eyebrow. "She hasn't bitten me again, if that's what you mean." Matthew bit a grin and raised his eyebrows at Mary: like mother, like daughter.

Ignoring Matthew, she followed her daughter's gaze. "Look at your Uncle Anthony, he's a Silly Billy, isn't he..."

"Father never plays with us..." Mary leant down to hear her daughter's softly-spoken words; Emmy's eyes drawn to Margo and Peter riding Anthony like a horse, "...he'd say the ground was too dirty to kneel on..."

She sighed inwardly. She could only hope that Richard would put things right when he returned. "All fathers are different though, but they all love their children just the same."

Emily said nothing for a moment, but, yawning, snuggled closer to her mother. "...Mama..."

"Yes?"

Mary leant her head against her daughter's as Emmy's eyes fluttered shut, the image of Margo flinging her arms around her father's neck fading to black.

"...Maybe Uncle Anthony isn't so bad, after all."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

Let me know what you think! Nearly a week until a Downton Christmas!


	4. Chapter 4

Right, I'm leaving it longer between chapters, but that's because they're quite a bit longer than I usually write. Hope everyone had a merry christmas and please review, your thoughts are really helpful and, knowing which bits you like, is great for knowing what to do more of. Read and enjoy! (Hope everyone loved the Christmas special - I know I bloody did!)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4:<strong>

_15th December, 1929._

"Should I be worried?"

Isobel glanced at Violet for only a moment before looking out of the drawing window once more. There they were, chasing each other in the snow. Emmy's cheeks as red as her hat from the cold, Peter being swung around by Matthew, Mary and Matthew laughing with each other...Any stranger would have guessed that they were a happy family. Pity it wasn't the truth, pity they weren't a family. Violet heaved a sigh, before joining the younger woman at the window. Isobel was worried for her son, of course, but Violet stared at Mary. How was the poor girl supposed to stay indifferent when her old flame was looking at her like _that_?

"Should _you_ be worried?" Violet scoffed. "He's a bachelor, he has nothing to lose," She tutted as her granddaughter's laugh carried across the lawn, "...Mary, on the other hand-"

"I hope you're not implying my son is anything other than a gentleman." Isobel bristled.

"Oh calm, Isobel, your son is all that is honourable – that's why he did nothing to stop her from marrying Richard in the first place, but..." Violet trailed off, her eyes flickering to Isobel.

"But?" Isobel implored, knowing Violet would tell her anyway. "But what?""

"The heart doesn't care about honour." Violet sniffed, ignoring the look of incredulity on the other woman's face. "- Yes, yes, I may sound like a mouthpiece for Lord Byron but any plebeian can see how it _is_ as it always _was_...they still love each other-"

"And _nothing_ can be done about it." Isobel said firmly, looking away from the domestic scene to glance at her wedding rings. Marriage was sacrosanct and final. No matter their feelings, there was no going back. "It took Matthew years to recover from Lavinia and, when he did, he threw himself into his work , into Downton, into being a part of this family – but any mention of romance..." She shook her head sadly; she couldn't help but look at her son's smiling face once more. "I've never seen him happier than these last few weeks. I'm glad that he's patched things up with Mary and I'm glad that he and little Peter seem to be such good friends, I _am_...it's only..."

"He's living in a fantasy." Violet nodded, putting words to the thought Isobel was reluctant to voice. "...I wouldn't worry too much, my dear, Richard should be here within the hour," she patted Isobel half-heartedly on the arm before retaking her seat by the fireplace. "...it's difficult to pretend that another man's family is your own when the man in question is living under the same roof – It's hard on the boy, I know," the old Dowager said sympathetically, despite an interesting beginning Violet had come to love dear Matthew almost as a grandson. She half-smiled, hearing peals of laughter from Peter and Emily.

The two women were right to worry. Violet turned to meet Isobel's concerned gaze. "But this bubble must be burst before either Mary or Matthew do something foolish."

* * *

><p>"Mama! He's behind you!"<p>

Hearing her daughter's call, Mary whirled around to see her angelic little boy wearing a face that was decidedly not angelic...and armed with snow. Everything was white; the heavens had opened with snowflakes last night and now her son was standing before her with it up to his knees. Over the last couple of weeks, Matthew and Mary had been thrown together time and time again because of Peter. _Mama, come look and see, Matthew can do a magic trick...Matthew, you must hear Mama read The Tale of Mrs. Tittermouse_, _she does all the voices..._and she would be a liar if she said she hadn't enjoyed Matthew's company. Even Emmy found that she enjoyed herself more when Matthew was around; everyone seemed in a better mood and he was an awfully good sport when it came to games. Not that she'd admit that to a soul, of course. But both Carlisle ladies were pleased that morning when Matthew had come bounding up to the house declaring that, if there was snow, snowmen must be built, snow angels must be made and snowballs must be thrown...

Which had led to Mary's current predicament. Somehow, it had become the battle of the sexes and now her son, who Richard had often complained was becoming dangerous close to a mummy's boy, was poised to attack his mother. She glanced at Matthew, a sly grin on his face; despite her mother's worries that her grandson might be a little too attached to Matthew, even Cora couldn't argue that Matthew had done wonders for her son's confidence.

"Rabbit," She warned her son, trying to stop smiling. "Don't you dare! I'm your mother." She tilted her head, her words soft, imploring. Her little boy wouldn't let her down; Matthew rolled his eyes. Her jaw dropped, as her son turned questioningly to his partner-in-crime.

Matthew's eyes glinted with amusement, and Mary raised a knowing eyebrow: _Et tu, Brute?_ His face split into a grin. "...Get her, Rabbit!"

Mary didn't have time to move before the snow hit her, but played the role of the indignant mother well as her son ran off laughing, her daughter in hot pursuit of her brother, already determined to have revenge. Bending down to scoop up some snow, Mary ran, with difficulty through the thick snow, after the children, hearing Peter scream with delight. "You rascal, come here!"

She threw but missed, frowning as her son stopped running to smile up at her without fear. Damn. She'd forgotten about-

"Matthew, put me down!" She screamed, laughing, as Matthew lifted her up by her legs. She was forced to grip on to his shoulders for balance, feeling far too high off the ground.

Emmy bit her lip to stop laughing herself and frowned at the pair. "You're bigger, it isn't fair!" She said, petulantly.

Matthew turned to face the girl, her mother still in his arms. "I should pick on someone my own size?" She nodded, insistent. That wicked gleam in his eye was back. "...Rabbit, swap targets!" He grinned, as Rabbit – ever the dutiful second-in-command – went after his sister. The two of them started chasing each other back in the direction of the house.

"No, no!" Mary said, trying to catch her breath from laughing, as Matthew spun them a little, "Matthew, stop or I'll-"

"Or you'll what?" He looked up at her, daringly, ignoring the joyous feeling of her grasping at the nape of his neck.

She narrowed her eyes."...Don't try me, Mr. Crawley - no!" She held on to him tighter as he went to drop her.

"Admit defeat and I'll leave you be."

She raised another eyebrow. For over sixteen years, her family had more or less thought him without fault; she knew better. When it came to Lady Mary, Matthew loved to play the smug man, the stubborn man, but he always forgot one thing: when it came to stubbornness, no one ever bested a Crawley Sister. "...Never."

"Very well."

Using one arm, he tried to pry her hands off of him so he could throw her into the snow, but Mary held on tightly. Unfortunately for Matthew, with only one arm now carrying her – and he had been holding her for some time – his knees were buckling a little. She was hardly heavy, she hadn't got any bigger since having children, but feeling himself tiring, he awkwardly tried to fall so she landed on top of him instead of the other way around. He'd forgot himself. He wasn't a twenty-something year-old man from Manchester anymore, he was a man on the cusp of his fourth decade with an old back injury which liked to flare up from the war. But - lying in the crisp snow, Mary's face inches from his, her breath warm on his face – he felt like that young man again. And, in spite of the cold bite of winter, that feeling warmed him.

"Well," She smiled nervously, quickly standing up, "that was all your fault."

"_My_ _fault_?" He said, dragging himself up also and wincing a little, but determined not to let her make things awkward. "All you had to do was surrender!"

She barked a laugh and shook her head. "Do you know me at all?"

He smiled flirtatiously, pleased with himself as she blushed. "...Like the back of my hand..."

"My lady?"

"Carson!" Mary whirled around, annoyed with herself for feeling as if she'd had her hand caught in the cookie jar. She trudged the snow to get closer, to where Carson stood on one of the cleared garden paths. "Is something the matter?"

"You wanted to know when Sir Richard's train came in," Carson said, politely nodding at Matthew, and trying not to show how cold he was only in his jacket. "He's making his way to the house as we speak."

"Gosh," She swallowed nervously; she hadn't seen Richard in six weeks. "Is it that time already?" She turned to smile as her children also made their way onto the path and ran up to her.

"Is father here?" Emmy asked Carson, her eyes lit up eagerly.

"Almost, Miss Emily," Carson smiled down at her, but was quick to look up at the sound of an engine. Richard had arrived ahead of schedule. "– that'll be the car now, my lady." He nodded at Mary, before briskly making his way back to the house. It wouldn't do, not being there when a guest arrived.

"He's here!" Emmy looked at her Mama, gleefully. "He's arrived!" She didn't wait a moment more before running after Carson, her coat flapping and holding on to her hat.

Mary grinned at the sight; Emily hadn't smiled like since first coming back to Downton. Though she was adamant that she was a 'big girl' and didn't need anyone, Emmy wasn't content unless she had her loved ones around her. Mary looked down at Peter who'd been very quiet since Carson's announcement and was now holding on to her hand.

She smiled encouragingly. "...Shall we go see your father?"

"Is he back for Christmas?" Rabbit asked, aiming for nonchalance, but failing miserably as he scuffed away the snow at the edge of the path.

"Yes," She tugged at her son's hand to make him look at her. Her voice turned serious, but sincere. "He's missed you very much."

"He has?"

Her heart melted at the hope in her Peter Rabbit's voice and she silently cursed Richard for ever having made her son doubt him. "Of course." She affirmed, before she finally looked back at Matthew, suddenly looking less cheerful and quite alone, off to the side, knee deep in snow, unsure what to do with himself. "...Matthew, I had better..." She nodded towards the house.

"Yes, quite right," He nodded, smiling and trying to mean it, if only for Rabbit. "You must go see to your husband. I'll, well I shall wait just for...you need a moment alone." He finished, not really knowing what to say.

"I wouldn't worry about that," She smiled back, trying to reassure him, "the whole family will be there to greet him on arrival." And she could only imagine how that was going.

"Come on, Captain Matthew!" Peter pleaded, already imagining what sort of fun he could have with Matthew and his father. "Perhaps Father can be on our team."

Mary smiled, again, in agreement, but her doubts on the matter were clear. Matthew didn't have merely doubts; he was certain that Sir Richard wouldn't want to play with them. The Three Musketeers? He didn't think so. No, Matthew had a very strong inkling that Sir Richard wouldn't want him around his son at all. Nevertheless, he nodded at the boy's suggestion.

"Perhaps."

Walking into the house, Mary ignored her nerves and anticipation as she glanced into the hall. The family were nattering amongst themselves, but they seemed content. Emmy seemed to be doing all the talking; Richard gave his daughter his full attention, his back to the entrance. Seeing his father, Peter rushed forward, but Mary stopped him quietly and unlaced his icy shoes and passed Carson his coat.

"What did you bring us? Was London boring without me?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt." Richard assured his daughter before feeling someone pull at the bottom his jacket from behind. He turned around, his eyes softening. "Rabbit, my boy, how are you?"

"Very well, father." Peter replied, his own nerves replaced with a smile as his father marked the moment rarely by picking him up. Peter smiled, his hands against his father's face. "We've been in the snow."

"I can see that." Richard agreed, feigning a gasp at how cold his son's hands were. Even Robert smiled at that. "Who with?"

But he needn't have asked as his eyes met with Mary's. He smiled in greeting, but his smiled turned somewhat anxious as she failed to smile back. She was just staring at him, as if she'd seen a ghost. Finally, she roused to consciousness, as Carson took her own coat and gloves, but her expression gave nothing away.

He looked dreadful, she thought decidedly. She briefly glanced at the rest of her family to gauge their reactions, but they seemed none-the-wiser, smiles plastered on their faces for the sake of the children. Papa wouldn't know, he tried to avoid all contact with Richard, if he could help it. Meanwhile, Granny had decided that Richard had the complexion of a man who had spent too much of his childhood indoors. Mama was the only one who really took note of how well a person looked and she was too timid around Richard, lest an argument ensue, to say anything. But he looked ill. Far skinner than she'd seen him in years, his eyes tired and his skin waxy and pale. He looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"With Mama." Peter answered, smiling at Mary. "And with Matthew."

Mary's back stiffened as Peter nodded at someone behind her and suddenly she felt Matthew by her side. Richard must really look bad, she thought wryly, for Matthew to be completely pushed from her thoughts.

"Mary, dear."

Guilt rushed through her for thinking such a thing. She prayed that she looked welcoming and kissed his cheek. "...Richard, how are you?"

"Better for seeing my family, I think." He grinned at Peter, then at Emmy. He didn't mean her side of the family, of course, but Mary could tell he was sincerely pleased to be back with the children and that was enough for her.

"We'd rather you play with us, though." Emmy insisted, seeing her father's gaze rest warily on Matthew. Peter frowned unhappily at that and her grandfather looked at her with admonishment, but Mary said nothing, not daring to look at Matthew. They _should_ prefer their father's company, that was how it ought to be.

"Matthew." Richard nodded in greeting. Holding Peter with his right arm, they were saved from shaking hands. "I'll take it from here, shall I?" He smiled, turning back to his children, their reunion over. "Now, have you been good for your grandparents? I hope..."

But Matthew heard no more, Richard's voice turning to white noise. Glancing at the children's smiling faces, Mary's eyes resolutely on the scene before her, Matthew knew he'd been excused. Their father had returned and he was no longer needed, no longer wanted. And for the first time, now it was being taken away, Matthew finally had a sense of what he'd been missing for all these years, what he'd denied himself out of respect for Lavinia and out of his belief that he'd never love anyone the way he loved Mary. A family life. And he'd told himself that he didn't need it nor want it, but seeing the adoration on Emmy and Peter's faces directed at a man that all the Crawleys had written off as unlovable gave Matthew food for thought. Was it time to let go of the past and have a family of his own?

* * *

><p><em>19th December, 1929.<em>

"...and then tomorrow, Matthew's promised to help me make a snowman, b-bigger than the Christmas tree!"

Mary smiled at her son's excitement, but looked cautiously at Richard, who sat opposite her at dinner. The snow had stayed, but Richard's good mood had been and gone. For the last few days, he had been ghastly. He didn't rise until midday and, when he did, he was cursing and shouting until he went to bed again that night. His man hadn't pressed his jacket right or the children were making too much noise or her father had purposefully seen to it that he'd been put in a room with a draft or her grandmother was insinuating this and that or the children spent too much time with the servants...the list went on. If they'd been in their own home, she would have had it out with him, he would have grown even angrier, sulked then apologised, but she'd never seen him so consistently bad-tempered and was loathe to stoke at the fire. At first, she'd put it down to Matthew's presence, but after they'd married, Richard had always been civil to Matthew. Now and then, Matthew had been brought up by her husband in an argument, but Richard maintained a certain level of politeness. Anyway, as if sensing Richard's current frame of mind – or probably on the advice of one Crawley or another – Matthew had more or less stayed away from the house itself. No, Richard wasn't being riled up by Matthew; if he was, Richard would have tried his hardest to hide it. But that wasn't to say Peter's evident admiration of Matthew Crawley was cheering Richard up.

"Bigger than the Christmas tree, my my!" Robert smiled, noticing Richard's almost grimace at his son's words. "...I'm surprised you didn't open Haxby, Richard, you seemed quite adamant on the telephone."

"Well, in the end," Richard drawled, near playing with the food on his plate. "I realised it was much simpler to except your offer to stay here. After all, we'll be returning to London in a few days."

Cora looked at daughter in askance. "Mary?"

Mary frowned. "I thought..."

"You thought what?" He raised his eyebrows at his wife expectantly. "Don't worry, we still plan to return for Christmas day, but my sister Hester mentioned travelling down from Scotland for New Year so we'll return to London probably-"

"Your sister..." Mary breathed, hoping it was a joke. What was he talking about? Even Richard hated Hester, everybody did. "You haven't said any of this to me."

"I'm saying it now."

"But, Father," Emily asked, confused; her Grandmama batting her hands away as she went to lick her fingers, "what about my play?"

"What?" Richard asked, starting to get irritated.

"My play, of course!" Emily said, excitedly. "At school, we're rehearsing to do the nativity and I won the part of the Virgin Mary, Margo wasn't happy, but she's playing an angel so I don't see why she's so-"

"_School_?" He repeated, before turning to Mary. "What school?"

Mary sighed inwardly, knowing that she should have told him earlier. "Ah, well...I'd meant to speak with you about that. You see, Emmy's been bored out of her mind and so I thought, temporarily, it wouldn't do any harm to enrol her at Queen Anne's. I looked for a governess, I _did_, but - unless you're a well-to-do girl, daughter of the ambassador to some little African country where there are no schools– finding a governess is an impossible feat. _All_ the girls are going to school now-"

Richard closed his eyes, exasperated. "Why am I only hearing about this today?"

"Well, you didn't notice that she's been gone during the day and...I didn't want to add to your troubles."

"And what are my _troubles_?" He snapped, his cutlery clunking against his plate.

"I wouldn't know, would I?" She retorted, having had enough of his behaviour. "You never tell me anything..." To which Richard merely sipped his wine.

"Good news," Violet said, wanting her share in a conversation. "Miss Georgina Litton has accepted her invitation. Fingers crossed, we'll have Matthew married off by next autumn."

Robert sighed at how tactless his mother could be. "Mama, please."

"But while we're on that subject," Cora tried brightly, hoping to keep Mary and the children at Downton for longer. " - Richard, you mustn't leave so soon for it's our turn to host the Winter Ball, it's tomorrow and we would be so delighted if you would both attend-"

But Richard hadn't been listening; he was still fuming at his wife's actions. "How dare you put my daughter into a school without telling me, without _asking_ me?"

Mary blinked at him; she didn't understand it. He was angry, yes, but the Richard she knew would wait until after dinner, when they were alone, behind close doors. He seemed determined to make a spectacle of both of them, determined to have an argument. It was downright embarrassing; she'd spent the whole of November insisting that her family judged him too harshly and now Richard was doing his best to prove them all right. "Don't play the doting father, Richard, you've been near unreachable for the last month."

"Yes, well that's your fault, not mine. You should have travelled to London, as I had asked." He said firmly, before turning to his daughter. "I'm afraid, Emily, that there will not be a play because we're going _home_. We'll find someone who can fill Mrs. Turner's shoes nicely-"

"But I like school!" Emily spoke up, not understanding the problem. "And we've been working so hard with the play, I have friends-"

Richard interrupted her, his voice starting to get impatient. "We'll discuss this later."

Emily, took aback by her father's tone, looked at her mother for support. It was rare for Richard to act this way with little Emmy. "No – Mama, tell him – I love it there, I won't leave, I won't!"

"Emily, I am your father," Richard stared at his daughter hard, his voice brooking no argument, "and _you_ are my daughter – I make the decisions!" He sighed, as Emily stubbornly folded her arms. "...Honestly, if it's really that important to you, I'm sure we can find a school in London which is far better-"

"No!"

"_Emily_..." Mary whispered at her daughter, urging her to be quiet, knowing Richard to be close to losing his temper with her.

Almost shaking with anger, Richard turned to his father-in-law accusingly. "I suppose you've been teaching my daughter to be insolent when in my company?"

"Excuse me, Sir?" Robert blurted, incredulous that he was being pulled into it and affronted at the accusation. "I would never dream of encouraging my grandchildren to be anything other than polite to their father-"

"It's hardly the child's fault that you're being unreasonable." Violet muttered, holding up her glass for Carson.

"Mama," Peter said quietly, nudging his mother, Nicholas in his lap, "can you cut up my carrots please?"

"Of course, Rabbit darling..." She smiled down at her son and took his knife and fork, briefly glancing up to find Richard glaring at her. What had she done now? "What?"

"Well!" Richard insisted, irately, gesturing towards his daughter. "Aren't you going to demand she apologise?"

"Mama can ask me," Emmy said matter-of-factly before Mary had a chance to respond, "but I won't say that I'm sorry! You're being unfair! You've been unfair since the moment you got here!" Emily got up from the table, her voice now tearful. "You won't let me go downstairs to be with Carson and you won't let me play with the Bates' children either!"

"What is it about this family and the bloody servants..." Richard shook his head, muttering and ignored Carson's slight clearing of his throat. He pointed a finger at his daughter. "You tell me that you are sorry right now Emily Violet – you're still young enough to be smacked across the bottom, young lady!"

"You mean old-"

"Emily, _no_." Mary said firmly, not wanting to give Richard an opportunity to follow through on his threat. Emmy said no more, but ran from the room crying. Cora made to get up and follow her, but thought better of it, thinking it best if Mary dealt with it whilst Robert's contempt for his son-in-law increased ten-fold. Mary sighed and looked at Richard, imploringly, as Peter began to feed his bear. "Can't we see her in the play and then, afterwards, we can talk about-"

"No! No more talking!" Richard shouted, throwing his napkin down. "Bring her back here! This is ridiculous – when I was her age, I would have been _belted_ for speaking to my father like that! If she thinks that my absence gives her permission to – dear God!" Richard whipped round to his son, sick of hearing him talking to the bear when he was trying to think. "Peter, ENOUGH! It's time that bloody bear was thrown out!"

For a moment, Peter said nothing and just sat in shock, but that soon wore off and Richard groaned as his son began sobbing his heart out. Mary stood up from the table and shook her head in pure awe of what a horrible man her husband could be.

"What is wrong with you?" She demanded, lifting up Peter out of his chair to her hip as he continued to cry.

"Mary, do not-"

"Threaten me to be quiet all you like, it's clear to everyone around this table, as well as to just about everyone in the county, that you are in a perpetually foul mood!" Mary glared at him. "But, who do you think you are laying your problems, _our_ problems, at the feet of our children? I realise that your anger is coming from another place, they do not!"

"Yes, yes, let's talk about this now," Richard replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "in front of your family – give them more ammunition against me! That I'm a bad father who can't control his temper!"

Mary narrowed her eyes, ignoring the stares of her family. "I didn't say that."

"If only Matthew Crawley was dining with us tonight! What a comparison he makes!"

She could only roll her eyes; of course, he'd bring Matthew up. Blame someone else for their problems. "Oh, honestly, Richard-"

"Instead of the perfect, snowman-building son-in-law Mary could have had," Richard laughed humourlessly, looking around to the rest of the table, "we've been lumbered with this miserable bastard!"

"All these profanities," Violet sighed, resting a hand on her chest, "I feel like I'm reading _Ulysses_..."

"Oh, I really don't care anymore, Richard." Mary shook her head, tiredly, as Peter sniffled and rested his head in the crook of his mother's neck. "In the last week, you've managed to insult my whole family, including myself, on a number of occasions and now you've been reduced to making your children cry. When you decide to tell me what exactly has you on edge, _then_ I'll talk to you." She finished, quietly, nodding at her family before she started to make her way out of the room.

"What? Where are you – sit down!" Richard said, starting to sound desperate. "You are my wife, God damn it and I won't-"

"Yes! I am your _wife_!" Mary snapped, stopping in her tracks. She looked up at the ceiling, praying for patience and looked back at her husband, sadly. "...you promised me, Richard – when all of this blew up in our faces and the ship docked in Liverpool and we went our separate ways, you _promised_ me that you'd never leave me in the dark again." She waited for a response, but wasn't surprised when none came. She shrugged, feeling close to crying herself. "You have nothing to say, why doesn't that surprise me?"

Mary was brought back to the present by Peter coughing against her shoulder. "Yes, I know, ssh, it's alright – Papa, I'll be back down later," She half-smiled at her father and left the room, "– Rabbit, there's no need to cry-"

"I hate him!" Emmy said, looking up from the bottom step of the main staircase as her mother made her way towards her. "I hate him! Mama-"

"He didn't mean it, Emmy," Mary sighed, exhausted, standing her daughter up and encouraging her to go up the stairs, "your father is just very over-worked at the moment-"

"Hate him!"

* * *

><p>After the argument at dinner, Mary thought she'd fall into a deep sleep, but – as luck would have it – she couldn't sleep a wink. Richard hadn't said a word to her after she'd put the children to bed and, to make matters worse, her parents kept shooting her pitying looks. Richard was right; he was being a miserable bastard. But Mary couldn't think for the life of her as to why. It must be over money matters, he was usually passionate about that sort of thing. God, she could imagine it now. They were poor, her parents would be forced to provide a home and she'd have to listen to Richard and her family squabble until the end of time. In her nightgown, she'd snuck downstairs to the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of tea would help. That's what Granny always said. Pulling her dressing gown around her tightly against the night chill, she switched on the kitchen light. Gosh, she felt old – she could remember when they still lit everything by candle. Now, where was the kettle?<p>

"My lady!" Mary jumped to see Carson, outside his office, also in his dressing gown, hair out of place. "I thought you were...is there a problem?"

"Not at all," Mary assured him, smiling, hit by the memories of similar moments before she'd married, "you can rest easy, Carson. I couldn't sleep, I thought I'd make some tea or something."

"Allow me, my lady. I'll warm up some milk."

"No," Mary protested, as Carson immediately set to finding a saucepan, "you get yourself off to bed, I'm sure I can manage, don't..." She trailed off, as the old butler raised an eyebrow at her. Sensing defeat, she smiled graciously and sat down on a kitchen stool. "Thank you, Carson." She simply sat, content to watch him as he found the milk and gathered ingredients.

"May I ask," Carson started, putting the pan on the stove, "has Sir Richard settled in well?"

"You heard us at dinner, what do you think?" Mary asked wryly. She shook her head, sadly. "...Oh, I don't know what is wrong with that man, no one can do right for wrong anymore."

"I must admit that," Carson ventured carefully, "in my few years at Haxby, Sir Richard has never been so consistently..."

"Awful to be around." Mary said, saving Carson from finishing his sentence. "No, no he hasn't. At first, I thought it, well – I thought it was Matthew. But they haven't really spent too much time with each other. Sometimes, the mere mention of his name makes Richard see red and then...there are other times, when it's as if Richard isn't even listening, as if Matthew is the furthest thing from his mind..." She trailed off with her own thoughts, but soon noticed Carson looking at her. She looked down at the floor, guiltily. "Don't say it - clearly, Matthew isn't the furthest thing from _my_ mind."

"I would never say anything of the sort." Carson said, firmly, but Mary didn't believe him. She'd known this man all her life; he could keep his cards close to his chest, but he wasn't a liar. "Though I will say that I'm glad to see you and Mr. Crawley on good terms once more."

"Thank you." Mary smiled happily, as Carson placed a mug of warm milk in front of her. She breathed in that familiar sweet smell and looked up at him, playfully. "I was secretly hoping that you were up, you know. You always did make the best nightcaps. Don't say anything to Mrs. Patmore though."

"It's the dash of cinnamon, my lady." Carson said, tapping his nose. "My mother's recipe. Funny, I haven't made it since you were a child, but I've made it twice tonight."

Mary didn't need to ask who for. "Emmy..."

"Miss Emily looked a lot better after some milk and a biscuit or two."

She smiled at Carson gratefully before melancholy gripped at her again. "She always had Richard wrapped around her little finger; she doesn't understand it."

"He's your husband, my lady." Mary looked up at him intently, knowing he was about to impart some of his invaluable advice. "I may not be his greatest supporter, but I've seen him - you're the most important person in his life. Whatever it is, he'll tell you. Just be nice and give him time."

She nodded slowly, hoping Carson was right. She bit her lip and half-smiled. "You know all the goings-on in this house. Are you quite sure that you don't know what my husband's keeping from me?"

"A mere butler?" Carson asked, dramatically. "Perish the thought."

* * *

><p><em>20th December, 1929.<em>

It was beautiful. Matthew had never been one for parties, but even he could admit that Cousin Cora had really outdone herself. The Christmas tree stood proudly, holly and tinsel strung across the balconies, the great hall only lit by the lights of the tree and the candles on the tables. The Servants' Ball was always well put-together, but this was a ball fit for a Queen. Everyone seemed to be a Lord Somebody or the Marchioness of Somewhere. He'd have to do this someday, put on parties and soirees for people who were very important - or thought themselves to be such – but who he barely knew.

Would he be expected to do it if he was unmarried though? He wasn't so sure. Obviously, they were all hoping he was going to marry someone, anyone really. Although, given the looks that Cousin Violet had been sending him for the last ten minutes, Matthew had a strong feeling that they were hoping he'd choose the very pretty woman standing before him.

Miss Georgina Litton of Grosvenor Square, London. With a blonde bob and hazel eyes, she was very lovely, charming and, unlike Lavinia, seemingly confident in such a setting. She 'd just turned twenty-five; a man's dream, no doubt, but she made Matthew feel somewhat over-the-hill. She had been ten years-old when the war had started, meanwhile he'd rescinded his proposal of marriage to Mary. _Mary_...why did his thoughts always seem to stray back to her? Out of respect for Richard, he'd tried to keep some distance, but it had been difficult. He'd missed Rabbit's constant company far more than he'd thought he would and not seeing Mary...it was pathetic, really. He'd managed to live a fine life without her for an entire decade and then, a few weeks in her company, and it was as if he was young again and in love. As if it was Sybil's ball and Violet was prattling on him and Mary having an autumn wedding, the idea of going off to France and killing other men just like him seemed so unconceivable.

"My, the way it's all been decorated is so splendid." Matthew shook himself as Georgina took in the grandeur of the hall. She certainly didn't look out-of-place. "The tree looks magnificent."

"It does, doesn't it." Matthew smiled in agreement.

"You and your mother seem to get along very well with the Grantham family." She observed, glancing over to see Mrs. Crawley in a tête-à-tête with the Dowager Countess. "How many Christmas have you spent here?"

"Oh well, all the Christmas of the last decade, I've spent one or two in a trench as well," He tried to joke, but swallowed at its poor taste, "but yes, we all are good friends. I, sort of, fell into it, really, and none of us knew what to think of each other to begin with, but I can say with sincerity that the Granthams _are_ my family." He smiled, a little embarrassed but hoping he was doing them justice.

"How wonderful!" Georgina said, sincerely. "I wish that I had an extended family like that. I have a few maiden aunts here and there, but I'm an only child, like yourself. I suppose that you think of the Crawley sisters as being your own sisters now?"

With Sybil and Edith, of course he did. "...Yes, I suppose I do."

"The Dowager Countess informs me that you're taking a tour of Europe in the summer, I confess that I've always dreamed of travelling my way around Italy – I can only imagine how beautiful Florence is..." She trailed off, as something behind him caught her eye. "Oh, look – I didn't know children were attending."

"They're not." Matthew frowned, turning to see what she was looking at. A grin came on to his face as he saw Emily and Peter's heads peering through the balcony railing. "_Oh_..." Emily looked like she wanted nothing more than to join them and Peter didn't know what to make of it all, until he spotted his dear Captain Matthew and waved. Waving back, Matthew smiled more than he had done all evening.

"You know them?"

"Of course! Little Peter and Emily, they're Mary's children."

"Aren't they sweet?" Georgina added, but Matthew could hear the doubt in her voice. Some women were nurturing and others had to have their own before they had anything resembling a maternal instinct. He smirked a little; he wouldn't hold it against her. Sybil hadn't been that interested in children, until she'd become a mother herself. Georgina frowned, pensively. "Mary, as in Lady Mary Carlisle?" Matthew nodded and Georgina's eyes lit up, excitedly. "My mother says she's ever-so-charming – she's so glad that the Carlisles are returning to London. Apparently, they throw the most delicious parties at their home in Kensington. Although, I imagine their parties will have to be a little less extravagant in the years to come. My Uncle Michael thinks this dip in the market isn't going anywhere, but listen to me," She smiled, self-deprecatingly, "I'm just a woman, what do I know?"

* * *

><p>"And did he like his present?"<p>

"He did, my lady, thank you. It was very thoughtful, you shouldn't have gone to the trouble." Anna smiled gratefully, as she buttoned up the back of Mary's dress. What few buttons there were. It was a backless floor-length gold number with straps. She'd bought it from Paris that spring. It was a show-stopper, even she knew that, but with Richard acting like a git, she needed to do something to cheer herself up.

"Oh nonsense." Mary insisted, putting in an earring. It was so much easier without gloves; she was glad that the world had decided they weren't mandatory for dinner anymore. "It isn't every day that a boy turns ten and all boys must have a book of Greek literature by their bedsides. And _only_ boys, according to one of my awful governesses; I had to sneak _Odyssey_ out of the library. Now that William's almost a young man, what are his plans?"

"We're aiming for Ripon Grammar, my lady." She bent down to help Mary into her shoes. "He's very smart and the school in the village has been so good at getting him ready for the entrance exams."

"Has it? I was wondering if I should put Rabbit in the younger class." Mary bit the inside of her cheek, thoughtfully. "I mean, Mrs. Turner gave him some of Emmy's work, but it's high time he had some proper teaching. There's always a tutor, but Rabbit's so shy, I think he would benefit from making new friends. Anyway, he'll need preparation before boarding school – now that'll be a day I won't be able to think straight, I'll be too busy crying my eyes out-"

"Mary?"

Mary turned to see Richard leaning against her doorframe. Had he knocked? Why wasn't he dressed yet? She smiled, determined to play nice as Carson had suggested. She put in the other earring. "Oh good evening darling, I'm almost ready – Granny must be having a fit that we're so late, all the guests are here. You're not even dressed, where's Clark?"

"I haven't sent for him yet." He tried to smile back, glad she wasn't holding last night against him. He'd kept to his room for most of the day. "A word, Mary, please."

Mary sighed inwardly and prayed that he didn't want to argue. "...That'll be all, Anna. Thank you and, again, wish William a very happy birthday, from all of us." Anna smiled at both Mary and Richard, but was well-aware that Sir Richard probably didn't have a clue who William was. She waited for Anna to close the door behind her. "Well, what is it? Better make it quick-"

"I saved the newspapers." He tried cheerfully, coming further into the room.

"You did?"

He smiled at her surprise. "Hmm, yes, took about two days – many smaller papers have gone under but my British investors are of such a pedigree that the market crashing hasn't affected them as much as it could have. It seems that the _very_ wealthy are managing to escape unscathed, it's just everybody else who will have a rough time of it. I've lost a lot of money what with the American ventures going under, but it could have been much worse."

Mary let out a deep breath. "So, we're alright?"

"Yes, more than alright, really."

She nodded before frowning. "...But, if it only took two days, why have you kept to London for so long?" He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn't respond. He came to sit on her bed. Richard?"

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, I've just got off the telephone with Dr. Gregory."

She blinked. "Who's Dr. Gregory?"

"A very good doctor on Harley Street."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. What was he talking about? "We already have a doctor - Dr. Abbot."

"Yes, well," Richard smiled humourlessly. "I've spoken to him, too."

She shook her head, baffled. "What?"

He tapped his fingers against her bedpost for a moment, but gave into the inevitable. Once he opened his mouth, he couldn't look at her, he just let it all tumble out. "I've been having pains in my abdomen for some time now...I put it down to too much work and, as the pain got worse over recent months, I assumed it was simply the stress of dealing with unpredictable stocks and shares..." His eyes flickered to her, briefly. "You've seen me at dinner, I haven't been eating much and, well, now I can't seem to keep it down either. I'm sick as a pig during most of the day-"

"Richard," Mary waited until he looked at her properly. He was babbling; he never babbled. "You're starting to scare me - what do the doctors say?"

He held her gaze and swallowed. The room seemed suddenly hotter and cramped. He'd put her off for so long...God, he wanted to be sick. His voice filled the silence. "...That it is cancer." He swallowed again; the world hadn't imploded - so far, so good. "Of the stomach, to begin with, but now they seem to think it's spreading to my intestines."

Her eyes widened and her hand went to cover her mouth, but no noise came out. She was speechless. What had he just said? It wasn't possible. Richard didn't even get colds, there must be some mistake. She sat down heavily beside him on the bed. "..._Cancer_..." She whispered, allowing the word to fill her consciousness. She glanced at Richard who seemed to be with his own thoughts and, suddenly, it all fell into place. How many times had she seen that same haunted look in his eyes over the last days. Every argument, every cutting remark – he was a man in shock, a grieving man...and she was his wife. Her role was clear; she needed to keep it together. "I see," She said, licking her lips, as Richard slowly met her gaze, "and what do they say we're to do about it?"

He pinched his nose, tiredly. "Nothing, really. That's what the telephone call was about, what I've been waiting to hear since I left town. It's not the sort of thing that can be treated and it didn't help that I denied the symptoms for months on end. They can give me a form of opium for the pain, although it doesn't seem to work very well," He grimaced, starting to mutter, "– I just want to scratch out my stomach all the time, it's so unbearable-"

"That's ridiculous!" Mary blurted, appalled. "Nothing? They're doctors? – Well," She said firmly, determined to take action, "we will go to London again and stay there until we find a doctor who actually knows what they're talking about. You need to see someone who knows how to treat cancer-"

"Do you really think I've spent the last month seeing only old Abbot and Gregory?" Richard smiled sadly at his wife, covering one of her hands with his own. "You know me better than that. As if I'd take this lying down, no...four doctors, five specialists - same diagnosis." He sighed, coming to terms with it all. "They can't operate or anything like that, they think my best bet is if I take the prescribed remedies and have lots of bed rest." He rolled his eyes, it sounded like his idea of hell. He began to scoff. "One quack even suggested hypnosis, they'll be suggesting leeches next – you can tell that they've obviously run out of ideas-"

"Richard-"

"They give me until April, at most." He looked at Mary, trying to make her see the seriousness of it. He'd had some time to get used to the idea, but she needed to understand quickly. He was dying; there was no use in pretending anything different. "Apparently, this sort of cancer does its work quickly-"

"Richard!" She interrupted him, her heart beating wildly and her voice starting to crack. This was a joke, surely. Why was he just springing this on her? He was ill, he had cancer, he would die..."Y-you're going to - there'll be no getting better?"

"The nights are the worst, I've discovered." He said quietly, squeezing her hand, for his comfort or hers, neither were too sure. "I've tried to pretend otherwise, but I really do need a nurse now, or someone on hand-"

"I'll be on hand," She interrupted again; she knew what her duties were, "and, when we get back to London-"

"Oh, hush." He waved her off, fondly. "They'll be no London. If they could treat me, then yes, but I don't want my sticky end in that foggy old place – no, better to stay here, you'll need your family around you, around you and the children."

_The_ _children_...her heart broke for them. "You'll tell them?"

"Your family?" Richard asked, distastefully. "I'll leave that to you and not yet, if you'd be so kind – I couldn't bear to see pity in their eyes. It's quite nice to be thought nasty and inferior after you've had everyone else treading on eggshells around you." She frowned questioningly, not feeling in the mood to indulge his attempt at humour. He sighed. "Well, I might not think particularly highly of servants, but I don't doubt their intelligence – when the master of the house spends his evenings throwing up into the basin and sleeps for the most of the day, they're bound to be suspicious."

"And the children?"

That sobered him up. "Nearer the time. After Christmas and the New Year. After Emmy's play, at least!" He smiled in apology, but Mary bit her lip to stop herself from crying. How could she have fought with him over something so stupid, so insignificant? "I'm sorry for how I've acted. Not knowing has had me on edge. _Now_, now I can make plans." He nodded, determined, too accepting of his situation for her taste. "You go downstairs, we've all the time in the world to talk about this."

And Mary did as he asked, saddened by the knowledge that their time in the world together was being cruelly cut short.

* * *

><p>By the time she came down the stairs, however, there wasn't a hair out of place and it wasn't vain of her to realise that everyone gazed at her as she made her way down the stairs. She cursed herself for feeling Matthew's gaze more than anyone else's. She still scrubbed up well and grace was ageless. And the dress certainly did its job. God, she needed a drink. To pretend that this was just a ball, just a dance, a celebration and she could smile and simper and flirt and be happy. Happy, she laughed inwardly at the idea, how she could be happy again? Taking a glass of champagne from Thomas' tray, Mary made her way to the buffet table and groaned as her eyes locked with her sister's.<p>

Edith looked Mary up and down, well aware of where everyone's attention had just been. "You could have dressed up for the occasion."

"How droll."

Edith smirked, before helping herself to a small cake and nodding in the direction of their mother who seemed to be fighting off the advances of a fairly drunk gentleman. "Lord Montague is as awful as ever, he's cornered Mama again. You'd think that more than thirty-five years of marriage would be enough to convince the man that she's taken..." Edith trailed off as she watched her sister down her glass in one. "What's wrong with you? Richard not coming down?"

"Edith, please," Mary sighed, tiredly, not wanting to fight, especially about Richard, "if you want an argument, then-"

"Granny told me of the things he said yesterday, at dinner."

Mary narrowed her eyes, expectantly. "And you've come to gloat?"

"No," Her sister held up a hand in defence, "I've come to...apologise. The way I goaded you about Richard was unfair, and unpardonable in front of the children."

"Well," Mary frowned; Edith sounded sincere enough, "thank you."

"Clearly, he is far worse than I thought," Mary rolled her eyes as her sister carried on, "so aggressive. I shouldn't have laughed at your pain. I don't know how you stand being married to him, I can't even stand being in the same room as the man!"

"You won't have to for much longer..." Mary muttered, helping herself to another glass as a different footman passed by.

"What?"

She nearly barked a laugh. What kind of woman was she? Already offering up dry remarks about her husband's coming demise. "...Nothing, nothing at all."

"Gosh," Edith breathed, laughing as Mary took a huge gulp, "someone certainly likes her champagne."

"Here are my two lovely girls!" Robert grinned, hugging them both around the shoulders. Edith raised an eyebrow; it seemed like Mary wasn't the only Crawley who was hitting the bottle. "What a fine evening! So glad that you could finally join us, Mary – is Richard-"

"No," Mary snapped, before sighing, "he's...resting."

"Maybe it's for the best. He can be a little..." Robert slurred, trailing off; it was hard to be tactful when one was half cut.

"Careful, Papa." Mary said icily. Her father never spoke ill of the dead. "I wouldn't want you to have to take back something you've said."

Her father frowned. "Are you quite well?"

Edith smiled. "She's getting reacquainted with your wine cellar."

* * *

><p>An hour later, Mary was drunk. Drunk and alone with her thoughts in the darkened library, half-listening to the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the hall. A glass of champagne hanging limply from her hand, she was still trying to wrap her head around it. Richard had cancer, <em>cancer<em>, despite all the medical advancements of recent years, she knew what cancer meant: a death sentence. She should have realised sooner. He'd sounded so down on the telephone and she'd thought that it served him right, served him right for being so selfish. When it was she who had been selfish all along. She should have sent for the doctor as soon as she'd seen him. He had looked ill, so ill that she'd been stunned into silence, and yet she did nothing, how could she have done nothing -

"I thought I saw you pop in here." Mary squinted up in surprise as Matthew opened the library door, letting light through. Why was he here? Matthew frowned at her surroundings and her expression. "You enjoying the ball?"He tried, smiling.

She almost snorted and waved her glass in his direction. "A few glasses of this has certainly helped."

He smiled, but made no mention of it. He wouldn't understand; Matthew had never been much of a drinker. Richard liked his cigars and brandy, but Matthew, it seemed, was a goody-two shoes in all things. "Would you like to dance?"

Mary blinked; she hadn't expected that. She thought back to the last time they'd danced in the hall. Before Lavinia died, when Lavinia had seen them...the irony, how the tables had turned. "With you?"

Matthew's eyes widened at her tone. "...Is something wrong?"

"No, Matthew, I'm perfectly fine." She tried not to snap, but failed miserably. "You get back to your lovely Miss Litton and the rest of the guests. We shouldn't be in here alone; I've had enough of near scandal for one lifetime, thank you very much."

"What are you talking about?"

She sighed. They weren't going to have _that_ talk; she had enough plates spinning for the time being. "Why are you really here, Matthew?"

He shrugged, still smiling, and she silently cursed him for being so innocent, so kind. "I wanted to see how you were. It's silly, I know, but...I feel you've been avoiding me this evening...I thought you and I were getting along well."

"Yes, yes," She drawled dryly, getting up from her chair and putting her glass on a side table, "we get along _so_ well. I love you and you love me and we're honest about it so we can be the best of friends!" Mary smiled grimly. "What was I thinking? When it comes to us, I think denial is best, gives us some distance...excuse me," She went to step past him, but he grabbed her wrist in concern, not wanting them to leave things like this, " – get off me, Matthew!"

"This isn't you talking, this is the champagne."

"Oh yes, because you would know, would you? Because _you_ know me so well – like the back of your hand?" She pulled her wrist out of his grasp, throwing his earlier words back in his face. She narrowed her eyes at him, at his audacity. "Who do think you are? We've seen each other a handful of times over the last ten years, Matthew. I've lived a whole life without _you_ and, whatever this is," She gestured between them, disgusted, "this sick fantasy that we're somehow soul mates and my children can treat you like the father they've never had – it stops, now..." She trailed off, trying to ignore the guilt she felt at his forlorn expression. Her mind was fuzzy, she couldn't get her thoughts straight and she could feel a headache coming as the champagne began to wear off. Her voice grew quieter. "Don't...I could have kissed you that day in the snow, the day Richard came back, I could kiss you most days and break every marriage vow I've ever..." She shrugged, helplessly, "- I mustn't."

"I understand, I do, but don't push me away, please." He pleaded with her and she found it difficult to ignore the love in his eyes. "I _can_ be the friend, I _can_. I know how important your family is to you."

"My family..." She breathed. _Her_ family. She, Richard and the children. They were a _family_. She'd never thought that she had wanted that, or would be content with it. But Mary had found more happiness as a wife and mother than she'd ever dreamed to be possible. It really was unjust, wasn't it? It's only when one is told that something is to be taken, snatched mercilessly, that one realises how much that something truly meant. It would never be the same. She'd be a widow, her children would be fatherless...and the dam finally broke and the tears and sobs of grief for what was going to happen took over Mary entirely.

"Mary?" Matthew asked, his face stricken as she cried. Without another thought, he came forward and wrapped her in a hug. "It's alright, ssh..."

"Is it?" She wept into his jacket. "...You were right about us, we _are_ cursed. We ruin other people's lives. We come together and...it's like it goes against the nature of things or something. The Gods knew that I was back at Downton and you were making me happy, so they're going to punish me, punish _my_ _children_, just like they punished you and took Lavinia."

"No, no," He whispered lovingly against her hair, not quite understanding what she was talking about, but having perspective when it came to Lavinia. "You're not being punished. I was wrong, very wrong, I should have never said those words to you. It took time to realise it, but Lavinia died of Spanish Flu, it was nothing we did, I promise you."

She pulled back a little to look into his face. She smiled sadly, putting a hand to his cheek. He didn't dare move. "...We could have been so happy, you and I. If I'd just confessed everything and told you how much I loved you, you'd have gone off to war a married man, married to _me_, and none of this would be happening-"

And then his lips were on hers and he was pulling her fiercely towards him, pressing their bodies together. Her hands were in his hair, her nails gently trailing behind his ear and his tongue was in her mouth. He tasted – God, he tasted of _Matthew_ and all her clouded, drunken musings were replaced by that old aching desire for _him_ and he returned it in kind. They'd never kissed like this, having only shared the curious kisses of a young romance. No, this was the kiss of two adults, both knowing their way around a bedroom, but never having shared passion of this kind. It felt so right, until it felt so wrong and Mary needed air and the dimming affects of the alcohol soon brought clarity to her mind. Her husband was dying and she was -

The sob into his mouth caused Matthew to break away immediately. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Oh God, Mary, I'm sorry...I just, I didn't...Mary!"

But she didn't give him any time to explain, running from the room, knowing the guilt would follow her into the hall.

* * *

><p>"Mary, I was wondering if I could have a word?"<p>

Mary stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes in a silent prayer. Wiping any trace of tears from her face, she turned to face the older woman.

"Of course, Cousin Isobel, what is it?"

Isobel thought her words through carefully, but came straight to the point. She didn't shy away from any topic. "...Give Matthew a chance, to be happy, to find love," Mary followed Isobel's gaze across the room to Miss Litton, " – to have what you and Richard have. I am happy that you two are friends again," Isobel smiled, briefly touching Mary's arm, "and I would never presume that you would encourage him, but if you could be clear that-"

"Thank you, Isobel," Mary interrupted. The Gods really did hate her, but they knew about timing, she'd give them that, "but I don't need reminding that I'm married. You have nothing to fear and Matthew doesn't need my blessing to find himself a wife. It's of no matter to me."

Ignoring Isobel's stunned expression and without pausing to hear her response, Mary lifted up her dress and almost ran up the stairs to her room. This night needed to end. The smiles, the Christmas cheer – how she suddenly loathed every single guest at this party. She raised an eyebrow in surprise as Richard made his way towards her, smiling and looking quite dashing in his tux. Still, he'd lost so much weight.

She smiled, but couldn't hide her worry. "Richard, shouldn't you be resting?"

"Oh please," He tutted, kissing her on the cheek, "I have months ahead to do plenty of that. I didn't want to miss out on all the fun."

"Of course, and you haven't been." The months ahead...she couldn't think about that, not tonight, not even tomorrow. She shrugged, feeling very much the scarlet woman and a terrible wife. "It's been a bit dull, really. I'm sure you'll brighten things up though, by saying something crass so Granny can look down her nose at you."

"You're just trying to make me feel better," He grinned, before sobering, "– Don't be nice to me, Mary, not just because-"

"I'm not, I promise." He could see right through her. He'd become the most important man in her life and had lived with her daily for the last ten years. If anyone knew her, it was Richard and her tongue hit the roof of her mouth to stop her from crying again. "I'm just glad to see a friendly face."

He raised an amused eyebrow, but offered her his arm. "I don't think anyone has ever said I _look_ friendly – shall we dance?"

The last thing she wanted to do was to return downstairs, but she couldn't put out of her mind that they wouldn't have many more occasions to dance together. April, at most, he'd said. She took her husband's arm and smiled.

"...I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

Well, here it is. The next installment, sorry it took me a while. :) As always, please let me know what you think, your fav bits etc. - it's good for knowing how to write each chapter. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5:<strong>

_25th December__, 1929. _

Mary's eyes fluttered open; was he coughing or being sick? Coughing, no need for a basin then. Without really thinking about it, she turned on the bedside light and came round to his side of the bed. He was already getting his legs out as if to get up. Why did he do that? Mary stifled a yawn and placed a hand to his forehead, at least he didn't feel hot. "...Richard?" She asked softly, stroking his hair, but he was still coughing. She sat down beside him and rubbed soothing circles on his back. Earlier, she would have sprung into action, rearranging his pillows before he had a chance to move, but it had been a bad night. He'd been tossing and turning and getting up a lot. She couldn't help but yawn this time and rested her cheek briefly on his shoulder. "It's alright, don't worry..." She assured him as his coughing began to cease. "There, there, is that better? Here, don't...Do you want some water?" She stopped him from standing. "I'll-"

"I'm fine." Richard cleared his throat noisily and leant back on his pillow, tiredly. _I'm fine_. It had become his motto and Mary had to stop herself from snapping every time he said it.

"Well," She sighed, "you need to sit up more, lying down flat only makes you feel worse-"

"_Mary_," He glared at his wife, but bit his retort. It had been a long night, for both of them. He sought for the right words. "This...fussing - I'm fine."

"Oh, do stop." She sighed again, her impatience now making itself known. "I may have swallowed that the first night you woke up like this, but _now_ - don't insult my intelligence, you are clearly _not_ fine." Mary let her words hang in the air, daring him to reply. He could hardly contradict her. Satisfied with his silence, she stood up. "Shall I run you a bath?"

He glanced at her, incredulously. "We have to get up in a few hours, I'll wait. You need your sleep."

"We can get up whenever we want – _you_ need your sleep. You heard Dr. Clarkson, rest is very important-"

"It's Christmas morning!" He nearly laughed, but he was too tired. When was he not. The doctors had warned him it might come in waves and the cancer had certainly delivered. Apparently telling Mary hadn't been enough, his body seemed hell bent on proving to his wife that yes, he was sick. He smiled wryly. "If we're not up and about, looking cheerful, singing carols, me trying to deflect every cutting remark that comes out of your grandmother's mouth whilst serving _myself_ lunch..." He trailed off at the look she sent him. Sick or not, Mary still made it clear when he was pissing her off, and strangely he was glad of it. He shrugged slightly, his way of apology, as she made her way back to her side of the bed and clambered back in. He finally settled on what he knew would win his case. "We cannot disappoint the children."

_The children_. She rubbed her eyes, the true innocents in all of this. Richard had made his peace since the debacle of his first few days at Downton. Emily had held her grudge a little longer, of course, but the girl was clever and, seeing Christmas fast approaching, decided to forgive and forget. She wasn't pleasant to be around when she thought she'd been wronged, but when Emmy gave her forgiveness, she did so absolutely. Rabbit, too, was on good terms with his father, but much was as it had been before. Richard was uncomfortable at all times now. The days weren't too bad, there were plenty of distractions, but at night, his discomfort and dark thoughts left him restless. A lot of his day was spent in his room, _in_ _Mary's room _as most of her family insisted on saying, despite her maiden days long behind her. He was well aware that they would have preferred it if he'd slept on the bachelors' corridor, but Mary would have no discussion of it. She'd made it clear that he needed her and his silence on the matter was telling: he knew that he needed her, too. Although, Mary thought, leaning against the pillows and turning to face her husband, looking somewhat healthily against the dim light, a day off might be nice. But Richard's insistence that his illness remain their secret had left Mary shouldering the burden alone.

"I'm sick of this pretence..." She ventured, her eyes looking at him searchingly. "Why can't we tell the family? I don't see why you-"

"Nearer the time, Mary, _please_." He breathed deeply, turning a little to look back at her. "It's hard enough having _you_ look at me with pity, pity for the invalid you believe me to be," He picked at the hem of their sheet, flinching at the bitterness in his tone, "– I don't think I could bear every other Crawley doing so as well."

"I do _not_ think you're an invalid." Mary said quietly, but firmly. "What you see in my eyes is not pity, it's pain – it _pains_ me to watch you suffer and, moreover, suffer in silence. Look at us – we've been doing this every night." She shook her head, willing him to see sense. "You can't sleep, you spend the whole morning pretending that you aren't sore and tired and then, due to sheer exhaustion, you nap – although _collapse_ would probably be a better word for it," She added wryly, " - in the afternoon. All the while, you say _nothing_ as my parents criticise you for wasting your day in bed instead of being with Rabbit or Emily or being with me or whatever else they've decided to run with."

Her frustration was starting to get the better of her. She knew, rationally, it wasn't her family's fault and, if they knew the truth, they would be different. It annoyed her that it would take Richard _dying_ for her family to see him differently. She usually put her family's opinions of Richard out of her mind and Richard gave as good as he got – more often than not he started most spats – but her husband was still only one man and she couldn't stomach seeing him being ganged up on at a time like this. Suddenly, his desire to move country was starting to make more sense.

"I can survive their criticism." He smiled at her, indulgently, pathetically pleased to her the concern in her voice. "In fact, I've rather grown accustomed to it – it's preferable to the alternative!"

"Which would be?" She demanded, ignoring his attempts to soothe her. "Their support? More help with the children? Being able to employ a nurse? Not having to sneak Dr. Clarkson through the servants' hall so he can tend to you?" Again, he said nothing. Of course he didn't, he had no answers for her. She wanted to roll her eyes and turn away from him, to sulk until he gave in, but she didn't have it in her. Mary didn't have enough energy to hold a grudge. She tutted and smoothed her covers over her; ten years of marriage, she knew when to let things be. "– Which, I might add, has resulted in Carson giving me very knowing looks, he thinks I'm pregnant, I know he does..."

"Why?" The smile which had left his face came back again. "Is that what you did at Haxby?"

"No..." She trailed off, indulging in memories. She frowned. "I'm surprised that he's so off the mark. He knew within days when I was pregnant with Emmy."

Richard scratched his chin, his eyes glazing over as he, too, thought of their few years at Haxby, with Carson, when they were first married and the children were born. He pursed his lips, thoughtfully. "...God, you got fat."

"Excuse me?" Her eyes snapping to him, but Mary managed to stop her jaw from falling open. "I resent that, everyone expected Edith to birth a _whale_ by the time she had reached full term-"

"Well, that's Edith," He rolled his eyes, as if that were obvious, "but I always thought you'd remain slender throughout, but..." Richard searched again for the right words, he'd been doing a lot of that lately. He grinned inwardly; who was he kidding, he'd been doing a lot of that since he got married. He couldn't sugar-coat it. "...you ate, _a lot_. Although," He quickly added, defensively, "when we were expecting our little Rabbit, you seemed to have learned your lesson."

"Oh please," She yawned again, no real annoyance in her tone, "I was even fatter with Rabbit – you just missed the last month and half."

"Why, where was I?"

"France - on business." She shrugged, letting her eyes flutter closed. "I'm just...I'm going to rest my eyes, but I'm listening."

"Oh, yes..." He nodded slowly, remembering how depressed she'd been in those last few months. They hadn't got along, they'd both exchanged harsh words and then he'd gone to London. "We'd argued and I'd..." Memories of a blonde came flooding back, Rita Marks, wasn't it? No, Rhonda Marks? They'd gone to the Riviera...Richard swallowed, uncomfortably, and glanced at his wife. "Mary?"

"Hmm?" She let him know that she was still awake, but didn't bother opening her eyes.

"...I know many men do it and we're both aware that I've been amongst them...I'm sure your genteel father has never been tempted..." He trailed off briefly, bitterly. He'd never be good enough for that man, "but I...I want you to know that, that is – you've always been the only woman for me, Mary," He swallowed again and looked at her intently, "in any sense that really matters."

Mary's eyes opened again, flinching for just a second against the light again. She frowned at him, unsure if she understood his meaning, but didn't move to sit up. She waited a moment, and then raised an eyebrow. "...if you are speaking of what I think you are-"

"All the flirtations, all the dalliances, the weeks here and there in which 'on business' became synonymous with something else," He clenched his jaw, feeling awkward as she simply stared at him, but wanting to see it through, "...they didn't mean anything. I've never been with any woman for very long-"

"Why are you," She interrupted him, now incredulous, but Mary didn't have a question. She just didn't like where this conversation was going. " - are we really discussing this?"

"It's important that you understand how much you mean to me."

Mary sighed, inwardly. Thoughts of his demise had left Richard sincere. As if she didn't have enough of that in her life. Was Granny all the dry she had left? This wasn't them, this wasn't him. He didn't look at her so seriously and she didn't mention that she was already to privy to all the women he'd been with. Mary knew that they were meaningless flings; they didn't need to talk about it. For Richard Carlisle, most things that desired seriousness were met with wry humour and his feelings were shown through actions, not words. Yet, here he was. Her husband was looking for absolution, his voice full of regret. He was reminding her far too much of Matthew and it left a bitter taste in her mouth. At least Richard had never felt anything for the women he'd been with. "I'm _tired_, Richard. It was as if the children had helped themselves to Papa's brandy last night, they were _that_ excited. Can we ease your conscience some other time?"

Her words were harsh, but Richard knew the look in his wife's eyes. It was rather similar to his daughter's, actually; when Mary gave her forgiveness, she did so absolutely. There was nothing to talk about, she'd forgiven him long ago. He hadn't been with any woman but her since they'd moved to America.

He nodded, knowing relief on his face would irk her but didn't stop a small smile. "...Of course, dear. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." She sighed happily, with an air of finality, before switching off her lamp and making herself comfortable. It was some moments later before the silence was disturbed again.

"Mary?"

She clucked her tongue and shook her head, exasperated. "What?" She snapped.

"Merry Christmas."

She glared at him through the darkness, hearing the grin in his voice. "...Merry Christmas."

* * *

><p>"Oh, how delightful," Violet drawled, holding one of the jars closer, squinting at the contents. "What are they?"<p>

"Well, they're bath salts." Isobel smiled. "That's lavender, there's ginger and rose and some others. Very relaxing - send you straight to sleep, so I'm told!"

"Asleep in a bath?" The older woman raised an eyebrow. "Is that the wisest idea?"

Isobel blinked, and turned to Matthew in disbelief. Her son grinned. Had there ever been a year where Violet hadn't taken issue with her Christmas gift? "They're not, I didn't-"

Violet grimaced in her chair as she smelled the contents of a jar. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Oh Mama..." Cora sighed, glancing between them.

"Well, last year Cousin Isobel gave me a candle to put by my bedside," Violet said defensively, her tone belying what she thought of her last Christmas gift as well, "- I would simply like to be sure, that's all."

Mary smiled at the scene, and a memory suddenly hit her of the Christmas after Queen Victoria died. Granny had been melancholic, Cousin Patrick gave her a Swiss Officer's knife; she had asked him if he was trying to kill her then, too. _No, Cousin Violet, you just seem like someone who'd like a knife, that's all_. The added years certainly hadn't softened Granny in any way. Mary sighed inwardly at her trip down memory lane; if Richard's illness made him sincere, it had left his wife nostalgic. An enjoyable pastime for her mother and Edith, but which had Mary nauseous.

She turned to look at Richard who sat on the settee. Left feeling weak after their disturbed night's sleep, Mary discreetly had fetched him his tea and lunch, the servants celebrating their own Christmas downstairs. She grinned as Emily's face lit up as her husband gave her a present. Forgetting the ghost of Christmas past, she concentrated on the present. Papa was right; Christmas was all good and well, but it was only magical when there were children to spoil.

"And with all your beautiful presents," Robert smiled, "what possibly could there be left for you, sweetheart?"

Emily looked at her father for permission to unwrap it. It had to be special, he hadn't simply put it under the tree with everything else. Richard nodded, encouragingly. "Be careful when you open it." Biting her lip, Emmy carefully pulled the bow and removed the paper. Frowning, she opened the box and her jaw dropped at the sight that greeted her. It was a string of pearls with an emerald clasp. Isobel gasped; she certainly didn't own a set of pearls like that.

"Gosh," Cora stuttered, glancing anxiously at Robert and her mother-in-law, "that's quite something, isn't it."

Richard didn't hear her; his eyes were on the only person who mattered. He breathed a sigh of relief as Emily looked up shyly, smiling softly. "It's pretty."

Violet sighed. He never failed to deliver, she'd give him that. "And rather expensive for a girl of nine, don't you think?"

Emily's small smile broke out into a grin as she touched the pearls proudly. She looked to her Mama for approval. "It's like something Mama would wear."

"Yes, it is and it's yours, forever." Richard smiled, his eyes flicking to his silent wife. "And when you're older and have a daughter of your own, you can give it to her."

Cora frowned. "Richard-"

"Now," Richard continued, "your father may have come from more humble beginnings," Robert's eyebrows raised at his confession though he said nothing, "but you see that emerald, there? That was from my mother's engagement ring. Your grandmother..." Richard trailed off. Mary smiled, nostalgia seemed to be catching.

Finally sensing some reaction from Mary, her husband looked up. "Now, your Mama will look after this for now, won't you darling?" In spite of himself, it sounded like a question. Mary could only nod. Satisfied, he kissed his daughter's forehead. "You will promise to wear it, won't you? At your debutante ball, at your wedding, hmm?"

Coming to stand by her daughter, Cora lowered her voice. "It's a present worthy of a debutante ball or wedding, but not a Christmas she probably won't remember. Why is he giving this to her now?"

Mary shrugged a little, knowing everyone had the same question on their minds. She glared at the top of Richard's head. For someone who wanted to keep the family in the dark about his condition, he was doing a good job of leading them to the light. She could have thought of an excuse, but she was tired and knew her mother wouldn't push it on Christmas day."Leave it alone." She looked at her mother. "Please."

Richard leant back, satisfied. "And what do you think of your gifts, young man?" He had something special for his son, but if he gave it now, there would be too many questions.

Peter smiled up proudly from where he sat on the floor, rolling around his new train. "Did you see? Grandpapa and Grandmama gave me a train with the tracks and everything and Grandpapa says I can keep it in the library and play with it whenever I want! And Matthew gave me this tie for Nicholas as well as..." He trailed off, glancing nervously at Matthew who was helping himself to lunch.

Richard waited for his son to continue and raised a sardonic eyebrow as all the air suddenly seemed to be sucked from the room. Even Violet seemed to expect him to blow his gasket. Richard could always rely on the Crawleys to think highly of him. "Matthew?" He asked casually, though his smile did appear more of a grimace. "Cousin Matthew gave Nicholas a present? Well...I hope you said thank you." Matthew pursed his lips to stop smiling as Richard clenched his jaw in discomfort. Ignoring the frowns from around the room, Richard forced a smile on to his face and patted his knee. "Come, sit here and tell me everything you've got."

* * *

><p><em>27th December<em>_, 1929._

"Matthew, my dear chap," Robert got up, forcing a cheerful look onto his face as Carson showed Matthew into the library, "did we have something planned?"

"No, no, I was simply...bored, I was bored." Matthew admitted, embarrassed as Robert chuckled and poured them both a scotch. "Mother's attending some reunion dinner in aid of raising funds for the Royal Manchester Children's Hospital and I'm at home, with only Moseley for company."

"You know," Robert said casually, handing Matthew his drink, "if you had a family of your own, loneliness wouldn't be-"

"I'm not lonely," Matthew said firmly, not enjoying the implication, but forcing his tone to be light. He got enough of this from his mother and Cousin Cora, "I'm alone – there's a difference." He glanced at the papers on Robert's desk. "What are you working on?"

Robert looked at Matthew warily and chose his words carefully. "...This crash has hit everyone hard, most are saying that we're going to experience a depression unlike any other."

"So," Matthew said wryly, "the Golden Twenties are to finish considerably less golden."

"All good things must come to an end, even for us."

"Us?"

"The aristocracy." Robert clarified. "Though, seeing as we began in Ancient Greece, I suppose it would be fair to say that we've had a good innings." He smiled a little, sipping his drink. "Old money isn't in abundance and abundance is what one needs to stay afloat at the moment. We don't produce enough, because we're behind the times."

"Well," Matthew said, pensively, "I've said it before, we have to take Mr. Pritchett up on those new tractors. All the large-scale farms are using them now, and yet, many of the estate's farmers are stubbornly holding on to their horses and carts. And we need to be more selective. Some of the crops farmed here are no longer competitive; in the south, the climates are drier and the soil deeper and that's before we take international competition into account. The Americans alone are exporting-"

"I know, Matthew," Robert said calmly, but sharing Matthew's worries and frustrations, "but these are trying times and, funnily enough, banks aren't interested in lending money anymore..." He started to frown in thought. "We can't afford to update..." He said quietly, before glancing warily at Matthew.

Matthew frowned at his sudden change in behaviour before realisation dawned on him. "No."

Robert shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "I didn't say anything."

"I saw the cogs turning." Matthew narrowed his eyes. "You cannot ask to borrow from that man."

"And what man would that be?"

Matthew scoffed. "Oh, you know fully well what man! He'll rip you off – he'll have you over a barrel, you know he will!" He sipped his drink and raised a wry eyebrow. "He's the sort of lender who'll have the Cosa Nostra kidnap your family until you pay him back."

Robert chuckled at Matthew's assessment of his son-in-law, but, though an exaggeration, it wasn't too far off the mark. Richard wasn't a man who simply gave out loans. Robert sighed, settling down in an armchair. "I do hope your reasons for disliking him are similar to my own," He glanced in Matthew's direction to gauge his reaction, "...and are nothing to do with why you're still unmarried at forty."

"The last time I checked, I wasn't forty _quite_ yet." Matthew smiled, before sobering. "I see you've been speaking to my mother."

"No, I've been speaking with _my_ mother." Robert frowned, wondering how many others shared this opinion. "Should I be worried?"

Matthew smirked at that and turned to look out onto the lawn. "No need for concern, I'll always do the right thing." Proposing to Mary when he loved her, ignoring his continued feelings for Mary when he was engaged to Lavinia, letting Lavinia go when he was injured, staying with Lavinia when he got better, killing any chance of happiness for Mary and himself when Lavinia had died after what she'd heard and seen, after they'd danced, after they'd kissed...Letting Mary go, letting her marry Carlisle without a fight, being happy for her, leaving her be. He sighed, quietly. "Regardless of what it may cost me."

* * *

><p>As Matthew walked back into the sunlight and down Downton's drive, he sighed as the subject of his thoughts came into view: Lady Mary Crawley sitting on their bench under the oak. Even Robert was suspicious, but Matthew couldn't say he was surprised. Ever since the ball and their kiss, Mary had understandably taken great pains to avoid him and he hadn't pursued her. The guilt of what they had done weighed heavily on him. He had kissed a married and inebriated woman. He had kissed <em>Mary<em>. It was all a horrible case of déjà vu. They hadn't danced and she hadn't been in blue, but the feelings were the same. If he'd talked to Mary back then, instead of closing himself off, maybe things would have been different, maybe they would have remained close. Guilt was inevitable, but repeating past mistakes was not. Finally summoning the courage to talk to her, he made his way over and blinked in surprise at the picture that greeted him.

There she was, Lady Mary Crawley, sitting on their bench under the oak and _smoking_.

She glanced up at him as he drew closer. "I didn't know you smoked," he blurted. Mary rolled his eyes at Matthew's near horrified expression. "I didn't mean that you _shouldn't_," He quickly amended, nervously. "I've just never seen you...Mother doesn't like..." He trailed off, and shook his head at how pathetic he sounded. He guessed that she'd expected his response; good boy Matthew Crawley doesn't smoke because his Mummy doesn't like it. He tutted at himself and sat down beside her.

"I don't, usually." She finally said, pinching the bridge of her nose and taking another drag. "At parties and in London, yes, but Emmy hates the smell and never lets me hear the end of it."

"Everyone smoked at the front." He said, rather pointlessly. Everyone smoked everywhere. Even he shared a cigar with Robert after dinner. Why was it bothering him? Mother said that smoking wasn't particularly good for the lungs, was that why? "So why now?" He asked nonchalantly. "Here, on the lawn?"

"For the same reason that everyone smoked at the front, probably." She inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out, annoyed that the tension didn't seem to be leaving her shoulders. "It relaxes one's nerves – allows you to forget, albeit briefly, the stresses of the day."

"And has your day been rather stressful?"

"Yes." She answered without hesitation, taking a last drag before she stubbed out the end of her cigarette. She leant back into the bench. "But I shan't burden you with it." She swore inwardly at Richard again for swearing her to secrecy. She looked at Matthew, wryly. "I couldn't even if I wanted to."

He nodded and surveyed the quiet scene around them. The frost on the ground still lingered from this morning. He swallowed nervously. "...Mary, I-"

"Don't." She stopped him, before he started, knowing him too well. "You don't need to apologise, we seem to spend all our time doing that. Frankly," She admitted, "I haven't given what happened between us much thought – there are far heavier things weighing on my mind."

"Yes..." He nodded again, thinking back to his conversation with Robert about Downton. He smiled at her, hopefully. "Back to friends, then?"

Mary nearly laughed at his face. Though he was on the cusp of his fifth decade, Matthew always had something of the boy about him. "I thought that we agreed to be indefinable? We can never seem to be friends for very long." She said dryly.

"That's not true," He insisted, defensively, "we were friends during the war."

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Yes, but if I recall, we didn't make our peace until 1916 and then after that I was here, and you were, you know, at war." She grinned.

"I visited."

This time, she did laugh, his petulant tone as endearing as it ever was. "Pardon my mistake." They shared a smile and Mary sobered up. "...I could use a friend."

She grinned again, as Matthew spread out his arms as if to say, well here I am! He scratched the back of his neck, his nervousness gone. A comfortable silence hung in the air.

"Oh," Matthew said finally, snapping his fingers as he thought of something to say, "Georgina Litton has invited me to a party that her aunt's hosting in London."

Mary nodded slowly, impressed. Matthew wasn't one for courting invitations. "Well, I hope you enjoy yourself, I do." She said sincerely. "She seemed very nice, she was quite witty in fact - certainly no wallflower." She tried to keep her tone neutral, though she had been taken aback by Miss Litton. When Mama had mentioned that romance may be on the cards for Matthew, Mary had, in truth, expected someone like Lavinia, lovely and sweet. Miss Litton was something else entirely.

"No..." Matthew drawled, knowing where Mary's thoughts had headed and he smiled softly as he remembered Lavinia. Then, he raised a wry eyebrow as he remembered Miss Litton's company. "Although I'm not surprised that she made a good impression on you, seeing as she spent most of the evening talking to me _about you_."

"Oh?"

"Yes, apparently London hasn't been the same without you." Matthew said with grandeur. Mary 's jaw dropped at his mocking tone and he held up his hand in defence. "I rarely go to London, I forget that you've built a whole life there – Georgina says that anyone who is anyone knows _the Carlisles_." She narrowed her eyes as he started to sound mocking again. He paused; that's why the smoking had bothered him, because he hadn't known about it and the knowledge that there was another side to Mary, another existence, that he didn't know anything about bothered him. He shrugged. "I don't know, to me you'll always be just Mary."

She blushed inwardly at the sentiment, but kept the smile from her face. She looked at him, unimpressed. "Just Mary?"

Matthew's eyes widened. "I didn't mean," He scowled at she broke out into an evil grin, "– you know what I mean!" He chuckled, but his laughter died down at he saw Mary's eye caught by something behind him. He turned to see Richard standing on the driveway, hands in pockets, his face unreadable. He stood up, smiling, remembering where he stood but pleased that they'd made up. "I'll see you tomorrow for dinner."

Mary smiled back and said her goodbyes before strolling back up to Downton. Richard remained unmoved as she neared him. She was impressed. He was tense, but not angry and he hadn't interrupted them. Only a few months ago, the mere mention of Matthew's name set Richard's teeth on edge.

"What was that about?"

She smiled at him attempt to sound casual. "Matthew's going to London, to a party."

"Crawley at a party?" She sighed inwardly at his sneering tone. "Anyone we know?"

"Georgina Litton's. Her aunt's more precisely," She pursed her lips in thought, "who I think is the infamous Mrs. Bakewell if my memory serves me right...that woman has more money than taste." She muttered.

"Miss Litton - an heiress!" Richard's eyebrows hit his hairline in astonishment. "My, he has set his sights high..." Mary shrugged, noncommittally. Bored of the subject, Richard leant closer and lowered in his voice. "I've been hearing whisperings that your father's having financial problems."

"He is?" Mary asked, shocked. She frowned. "How do you know that?" She sighed as he pulled a face appalled by her question; of course, Richard had spies everywhere. She smiled at Richard, hopefully, "...Well, we're not, so..."

He smirked. "Please Richard, bail my father out?"

She sighed at his attitude. "I wouldn't put it like that, exactly."

"He knows where I am and, when he gets down on his knees and grovels," Richard smiled, "I'll give him what he wants."

Mary glared, half-heartedly. "Don't."

"He could do with being taken down a peg or two," He looked down the drive as Matthew disappeared from view. "They all could."

She followed his eye line, suddenly not feeling impressed anymore. "They're not perfect and they don't pretend to be."

"Don't they?"

"We all have our flaws." She offered. "Papa, despite his strict moral code, often doesn't follow his own advice, Mama avoids confrontation like the plague, even Matthew..." She waited for Richard to look at her again, "can be self-righteous to the point of sanctimonious and I, despite being wonderful," She batted her eyelashes, trying to lighten the mood, "am often indecisive, fairly scathing and more than a little shallow."

"And me?"

"You're short-tempered," She supplied, "and ruthless," She sighed at his desire to teach her father a lesson "...vengeful."

"And, it would seem, an open book," He smiled pleasantly. He paused a beat and looked back down the drive. "...When I'm dead, will you leave him to Miss Litton or pick up where you left off?" Richard turned back to her, when she didn't reply. He frowned at her silence. "Mary?"

"...I heard you," She replied quietly, "you've just stunned me into silence. You're also contradictory." She said, feeling her patience slipping. "You insist that you are fine and yet you keeping bringing up your...death - trying to make your peace with me, buying your last gift for Emmy-."

He narrowed his eyes. "You didn't answer my question."

Her jaw dropped. "It doesn't deserve an answer!"

He ran an anxious hand through his hair, "I don't want to be a blip, Mary-"

"Contradictory and completely deranged!"

"Here lies Richard Carlisle," He said, his voice dripping with irony, "the man who kept true love apart for ten long years-"

"Do you have to be so morbid?"

"Just put it with your list of my flaws! And you might as well add selfishness too, because I don't want you with him, anyone but _him_!"

She shook her head, so astounded that the fight went out of her. "Because that'll be my first thought, won't it? I'll be alone, a widow with two children grieving for the loss of their father and obviously, my first thoughts will be of Matthew."

Richard's jaw clenched at his name but he said nothing. Mary sighed tiredly. "I know that you're finding this hard, but so am I. You don't get it, do you? When it happens..." She didn't need to say what it was, "for me, it'll be the beginning – the beginning of the rest of my life without _you_. Hate my father all you want, but when you are gone and he is wracked with guilt for the way he has treated you, _I_ will be the one to bear witness to that. Keeping this a secret, seeing my children's innocent faces every day, I need...I need you to realise that this isn't just about you. This is about _us_, our family. Your life, you _living_," She smiled sadly, "is as much my concern as it is yours. Our family is going to be torn apart and all you care about is that I don't start something up with Matthew?" Richard looked down at the ground, in embarrassed or guilt she didn't know. She shook her head at herself; what moral high ground did she have? She'd _kissed_ Matthew. "...I don't...you're not the only one who is tired, Richard."

He looked back up at her and pouted thoughtfully for a moment. "...I caught you on a lie, Mary." He swallowed. " You married a man who knew your dark, dirty secret and threatened to expose you if you should leave him. If I hadn't known, if I had nothing on you, would you have married me?" Richard asked rhetorically, shaking his head. "I'll never know, and it's my own fault. I thought as long as I had you, that was all that mattered-"

"Richard-" Mary started to admonish, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. Married for nearly a decade, Richard had not once mentioned his threats after they had married in the hope that they could put it behind them. He had got what he'd wanted and didn't want to sully their marriage like he had their engagement. He hadn't even thrown Mr. Pamuk in her face during their arguments. Yet, here he was, finally addressing the fear that had plagued him for years. That, if Richard hadn't backed Mary into a corner, she wouldn't have married him.

"But I didn't count on falling in love with you." He said quietly. "And, not knowing, is killing me. Well," He smiled humourlessly, "actually the cancer is killing me, but that's not what has me on edge."

Mary felt her mouth go dry and her mind started to reel as she was put on the spot. God, he wanted everything, everything to be tidied up. He wanted her complete forgiveness, first for his affairs and now for the sick nature of how he managed to get her down the aisle. She opened her mouth to speak, but she didn't know what to say.

True, he offered a position, a household, a place in society, stability, but he _had_ forced her hand and, during their engagement, she had considered, many times, to brave the storm and leave him. Her wedding day was not the joyous occasion that she'd dreamt of as a little girl. Her father couldn't keep the disappointment from his face, her grandmother couldn't quite believe that she was going through with it, her sisters had both sent her pitying looks; Mary had simply wanted to get it over with. "I don't..." She swallowed her words; he'd never looked so anxious.

After the wedding, after the honeymoon, Richard had calmed down and settled. He became relaxed in a way that reminded her of when they'd first met and soon, when she settled into their life as well, he became content. What a life he had given her, what a life they had shared.

Did Richard still believe her affair with Pamuk was what kept her with him now? Surely not, he hadn't needed that for years. Mary smiled and answered her husband truthfully. "You may have caught me on a lie, but that's not why I stayed."

Richard looked up at the sky and took his time to digest what she said. She hadn't lied to him; Mary rarely did. But sometimes, he wished that she'd take the hint and simply nod and say 'yes, dear'. If he hadn't been a brute, she would have got away. If Mary had had the choice, she wouldn't have chosen him and, finally hearing it out loud, hurt him and surprised him more than he thought it would. He placed a chaste peck on her cheek and turned to walk back inside. "You'd think that would make me feel better, but it doesn't."

* * *

><p>"Lord Grantham, I have a business proposition for you."<p>

Everyone looked up from their plates at Richard's sudden announcement. That evening's meal was a small affair. Peter and Emily had eaten earlier, Isobel was still in Manchester and Matthew had chosen to pop into Ripon and dine with some veteran friends. Conversation had been pleasant and they had all lulled into a comfortable silence. Just like Richard to go and break it, Robert thought, raising an eyebrow. "Over dinner?"

From the sudden change in the air, Richard sensed he'd put a foot wrong. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes; the intricacies of aristocratic decorum seemed to be never-ending. "Well, what with us quickly selling Haxby before a depression sets in, I thought I could..." He paused, searching for a polite way to put it, "offer my profits to you."

Robert blinked, shock giving way to propriety. Maybe Richard was the sort to give a loan. "You want to give me money?"

"I know you've been having problems." He said vaguely, shrugging slightly.

"Yes, whilst you've always been so assured in money matters." Violet offered dryly, referring to Richard's recent troubles.

Robert frowned, stuck on Richard's words. "Where did you hear that?"

"I forget who," Richard waved him off and Robert started to bristle at the younger man's tone, "- I thought I'd lend a hand. I would hate for anything to happen to Downton, I know how fond Mary is of her childhood home."

Robert glanced at his daughter, but Mary seemed as surprised at Richard's offer as he was. Robert nodded, cautiously. "...That's very generous of you, but, if we could discuss this when the ladies have-"

"Name your price and you'll have it."

At Richard's grin, Robert's jaw clenched. Carlisle was enjoying it, enjoying the idea of being in a position where his father-in-law was indebted to him. Lord Grantham gritted his teeth, but remained agreeable. "...thank you."

"Good," He said, his grin still in place. Mary almost flinched as Richard clapped his hands together eagerly, "after dinner, we can discuss the finer details and I'll have a contract drawn up."

"A contract?" Cora blurted.

Richard barked a laugh and Mary sighed inwardly as every Crawley seemed to sit up straighter, sensing they were being scoffed at. "In this day and age, a gentleman's agreement is hardly adequate."

"I hope that's not your way of saying that you doubt my word." Robert said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Of course not," Richard sipped his wine, "you'll have to forgive me, but I must protect my family."

Cora looked between Richard and Mary and frowned, somewhat offended. "I thought that we were family."

The quick grimace on Richard's face was enough to show his mother-in-law what he thought of that. Richard sighed, hoping to placate them. It was a simple business transaction, why did the Granthams have to nitpick everything? "If you should fail to make the repayments and pay the interest," Violet raised an eyebrow as his tone began to verge on condescending, "then I'll need some assurance, in case you should forfeit."

"You would charge us interest!" Cora blurted, horrified.

"Cora..." Robert held up a mollifying hand, not wanting another family dinner to fall into an argument. He looked at Richard, warning him. "We'll talk about this later." He said, firmly.

The Dowager Countess wasn't to be so easily dissuaded. "And by assurance, you mean...?" She waited for him to fill in the blanks, knowing exactly what he meant.

"The estate, naturally."

Violet smiled at Carson to top up her wine as she waited for her daughter-in-law to take the bait. It was time that this Carlisle had a good talking to about where his business lay. He may have managed to snag her granddaughter, but there wasn't a chance in hell that he was getting his fingers on Downton. Quite on cue, Cora's eyes widened. "How in God's name does a loan warrant you taking away the estate?"

Richard raised an eyebrow at Mary; Cora was one for avoiding confrontation, was she? "It's quite a loan, I assure you!" He insisted. "Stocks which once seemed unstoppable are now worthless, companies dating back hundreds of years are now dead in the water." He tried to keep his voice calm. "I'm a newspaper man, I know how your money has been invested, I know that your estate here as well as your other properties are expensive to keep running and your land isn't churning the profit it once did. English farming isn't what it was..." He trailed off, looking at Lord Grantham, imploring him to see sense. "It's not your fault, your investments were wise, but these are bizarre times, anything goes..."

"A newspaper man," Violet muttered, "but a doomsayer in his spare time."

Mary put down her knife and fork and sighed, reluctant to get caught up in the middle, but even more reluctant to see Richard and her family tear chunks out of each other. She tried to reason with Richard. "Papa would pay you back every penny when he could, you know that."

"I'm not a charity, Mary."

Violet smiled wryly into her wine. "Consider it rent, then."

Robert glanced at his mother, willing her not to cause trouble. "Mama-"

"Well, this is preposterous." Violet said with conviction. "He's willing to lend you however much you want because he knows that – let's face it, dear – you won't be able to meet his impossible repayment plan." She looked back distastefully at Richard. "Why bother with the newspapers, Sir Richard, when you can simply rob noble families of their homes and ruin them until they are the husks of what they once were," She looked at Carson for support, her voice soon a mutter,"...every room looking like the interior of a bed-and-breakfast run by some nouveau riche couple living in New England."

Robert sighed, again. "Mama, that's not going to happen-"

Richard's face hardened, his eyes on the elderly woman opposite him. "Like me, you mean."

She raised her chin, unflinching under his gaze. "Well, Scotland is hardly the New World, but..." Violet looked down her nose at him, "furniture bought at auction, no respect for an old family's traditions, business proposals over the dining table-"

Richard banged his fist against the table, his temper getting the better of him. Mary groaned at him giving her grandmother the satisfaction. "If you cannot afford to run Downton as she should be, then you don't deserve her!" He glared at the old Countess, almost snarling. "You think yourself so superior, but your arrogance will be your undoing! Only the aristocracy would look a gift horse in the mouth!"

"_Our_ arrogance?" Robert scoffed angrily, but not raising his voice. "You take it upon yourself to look into my finances and investments, the running of this estate – tell me, Claudius, how long you've been lying in wait for this?"

"You act entitled," Richard said bitterly, through gritted teeth, now turning on Robert, "but you deserve to lose _everything_, and I hope you do. God, I hope the bailiffs come knocking-"

"We'll _give_ you the money." Mary interrupted. She looked at her husband hard and lay a calming hand over his. "...you can't take it to the grave, Richard." She said quietly.

He shook his head, vehemently. "Mary-"

"I don't know how much money we are discussing," Mary admitted, "but I know that you have it and much more." She squeezed his hand, pleadingly. "You don't want Papa to forfeit on some silly contract – Downton means everything to us...to my family."

He looked at her, amazed and starting to feel betrayed and more than a little outnumbered. "You'd have me give away your children's inheritance in order to save something that should have been _your_ inheritance."

Violet raised another eyebrow. "A fool and his money _are_ easily parted."

"Don't do that," Mary frowned at him, pointedly ignoring Granny, "don't pretend that you are doing this for me. That ship has sailed-"

"Perhaps not."

"No, it has." Mary insisted, willing him to put his pride aside. "I've learnt my life lessons here, I know this land like the back of my hand, I've cared for her tenants, every soul – both upstairs and downstairs," She glanced at Carson, " – are family. But Matthew..." She paused, allowing him a moment to flare up inwardly at that, before continuing calmly, "has given his heart and soul to Downton, like Papa has and like my Grandfather did – I'm different."

"Mary," Robert admonished, quietly, not wanting his daughter to underplay how important Downton was to her and she to Downton for the sake of her husband. "I know how you feel about Downton."

Mary said nothing to that, but smiled at her father gratefully. She smiled back at Richard, hoping to lighten the mood. "Didn't anyone teach you that money can't buy you happiness?"

He pulled his hand from hers and threw his napkin onto the table. "At least money doesn't knock you when you're down."

Mary looked up, willing for some patience, but she knew that she had none left to give. She shook her head, aggravated. "...I am not in the mood for this tonight, Richard."

"I'm sorry," He said sarcastically, "I didn't know that I was such an annoyance." He smiled at his wife, bitterly, meanly. "Soon enough, I'll leave you alone." She turned to him, aghast. "I don't know why you're looking at me like that, callousness is _your_ speciality, remember."

She opened her mouth in anger, but clamped it shut, refusing to rise to his taunts. He wasn't the only one who could be spiteful; Edith would testify that her sister was a master. "So it is," She smiled humourlessly, her voice sharp, "forgive me. I suppose that I'm merely shocked, that's all – shocked at how making a profit really is the be all and end all for you. Here you are - sick, exhausted, riddled with cancer, months away from meeting your Maker and all you want to do is rip off my father."

Richard heard the gasps around the table and felt, rather than saw, the frowns and confusion on people's faces. His eyes were trained on Mary. His nostrils flared furiously, his lips a thin line, as he looked at his wife, unblinking. His voice dropped to a dangerous low. "I was willing to give you Downton at a bargain, what's wrong in that?"

She nearly blinked, she nearly apologised. He had all the reason in the world to be spiteful, but, like her husband, Mary's pride often got the better of her. She almost softened before she heard Richard's next words.

"I see that you're growing your hair."

Mary frowned slightly in confusion. She _was_ growing her hair. She was bored of the bob and fashion was finally starting to embrace a woman with longer hair again. Why was he...Her eyes clouded over as it hit her. _Have you seen the boys' haircuts the women are wearing in Paris? _She hadn't cut her hair off until they'd married and Richard wasn't fussed either way. No one had ever mentioned her hair apart from – _I hope you won't try that_ – Matthew. She turned back to Richard, not bothering to keep the hurt from her face. So, they were back to that. No matter what she did, no matter how she tried to care for him and nurse him and be the good wife that she'd always strived to be, he would continue to make her the villain. Because of feelings beyond her control. Because she was in love with Matthew Crawley.

"Don't you ever stop?" She whispered, blinking back the tears. "Time's against us and yet _this_ is what you think of me?"

* * *

><p><em>29th December<em>_, 1929._

"...and Cousin Cora says that the doctors had given him a fair few months, but December's been such a horrible month for him that it's anyone's guess. Isn't it terrible? They told Emily and Peter yesterday, those poor children." Isobel glanced up from her sewing to see her son staring into space. He'd done a lot of that since he'd heard the news.

After Mary's words at dinner, Cora had finally got the truth from Richard: he had cancer, he was dying and every doctor said there was nothing to be done about it. Soon, of course, the whole house knew and then the village and so did the Crawleys. Everyone seemed to be in a state of shock about it, even those who barely knew Richard. From close up or from afar, he was a stubborn man, a powerful man, someone who didn't believe there was enough time in the day to be sick or show weakness.

Cora, of course, had immediately softened towards the man and had been very apologetic. She now saw the need to kiss Richard on the cheek in greeting, which had left the newspaper tycoon very uncomfortable. Someone else who was uncomfortable was Robert. He wasn't quite sure how to react, because he wasn't quite sure how he felt. His dislike for his son-in-law didn't suddenly evaporate now that he was dying and yet Robert's heart went out to Mary and his grandchildren and indeed any poor sod who had to go through the pain of dying from cancer. He was embarrassed and ashamed and confused. So, he'd made a point of avoiding Mary and Richard and instead walking old Isis more often. But Richard hoped that most would follow Violet's example. Never had he liked the old bat more. She was treating him exactly as she always had – with a certain degree of repugnance, disdain and irony.

Isobel sighed. Since she'd returned from Manchester and heard the news, she'd found Matthew to be simply very quiet. "Matthew?"

He looked at his mother, apologetically for his lapse in attention, he nodded. "Yes, yes, it's terrible..."

"What's wrong?"

Matthew started to shake his head, but thought better of it. His next words surprised Isobel. "I was nineteen when father died." He said, his jaw tightening in remembrance. "I remember how cruel I thought the world was for taking him before his time – he was more or less Richard's age. They're so young, will they remember him? I cherish the memories of my father, what he taught me-"

"They are young," Isobel agreed, thinking of dear little Emily and Peter and how everyone's thoughts in the village would be with those two sweet children. Richard may have not been a favourite, but everyone adored the Carlisle babes. "Although, they're old enough for some things to stick, I think. And their memories will be ones worth having - at that age, one's parents can do no wrong." She smiled.

"That's true. If I know Sir Richard, he won't be going anywhere for a while." He meant it dryly, but was taken aback at how fondly he said it. "Poor Mary, having to carry the burden of..." He trailed off as his mother's expression suddenly grew more serious. "Mother?"

Isobel leant forward and looked at her son, most seriously. "Be kind, Matthew. I'm no fan of his, to be sure, and I know that you two have rarely seen eye to eye, but be kind. Cora said that it all made sense," Isobel's tone belied how much truth she thought there was to that, "how she knew that he was ill – he's been snappy and looking pale around the gills all Christmas, apparently. Cousin Cora has no idea."

Isobel looked down at her sewing. "Cancer makes for a sticky end, Matthew."

She smiled sadly as she went on. "The arrogant and angry man that you can count on to be Richard Carlisle, will soon become a shadow of his former self. A tired, withdrawn shadow who will be begging for someone to relief him of his suffering at the end..." She swallowed, her eyes begging her son to make her proud, "You don't owe that man anything, but be kind...

...Let him believe, if only for a short while, that he's the first in Mary's affections."

Shock had barely the time to register on Matthew's face as the door opened and Moseley addressed his mother. "Sir Richard to see you, Ma'am."

Then, both their faces registered a shock of a different kind. "_Oh_, well," Isobel almost jumped up, putting her sewing down, "do send him in Moseley."

There was a beat of silence as Richard walked in. Both mother and son took a moment to really look at the man and realised that it had almost been under their noses. He did look pale around the gills and awfully tired and thin. He certainly wasn't a man in good health.

Richard groaned inwardly as he waited for the pair to stop looking at him like he was a stray dog. Since when did having cancer, suddenly give everyone permission to stare.

"Mrs. Crawley." He greeted, trying to sound pleasant.

"Sir Richard," Isobel smiled nervously, jolting herself into action, "please sit down. Shall I send for some tea?"

"Uh, no," Richard's eyes widened, his feet rooted to where he stood. A spot of tea with Crawley and his mother; he couldn't imagine anything worse. "I shan't be stopping long, I was just hoping for a word with your son-"

"How are you feeling?" Ever the nurse.

Richard stopped himself from snapping just in time. "Never better." He answered tersely before turning his attention to Matthew. "Crawley?"

"Well," Isobel smiled, still nervous, realising that she certainly wasn't wanted, "good, I need to make a visit to the hospital anyway, so," She glanced warily at Richard, "I'll leave you two-"

If Mary were here, she'd berate him for being rude. Better do it yourself, old man, Richard thought wryly. "I apologise," Richard said, forcing a small smile on to his face, "I'm not in the best of moods. I never am these days." He added dryly. "I'm sure Lady Grantham has filled you in as to why."

"She was very discreet about it." Isobel insisted, before clarifying. "The younger Lady Grantham, of course."

The corners of Richard's mouth twitched, this time sincerely. "Of course." He nodded as Mrs. Crawley quickly said goodbye to her son and let herself out.

Again, there was a beat of a silence as Richard and Matthew were left alone together. And then, another beat as Matthew inwardly panicked, realising that this was the _first_ time they had been left alone together. His nerves only increased as Richard just stood by the door. "...Are you sure that you won't have tea?"

"Don't." Richard immediately stopped him, his voice brooking no argument. "The younger Lady Grantham was bound to suddenly be affectionate, Edith has returned now verging towards polite and my father-in-law has all but disappeared, but I'm relying on you and the old Countess to treat me the same despite recent revelations."

"Well," Matthew drawled, his nerves quickly leaving him, as somehow Richard managed to put him at ease, "you needn't worry about affection, but I would like to think that I've managed being polite over the years-"

"Not without a good dose of passive aggression in your tone." Richard said frankly, but without judgement. Matthew could only tilt his head in guilty acknowledgment. He sighed, before getting on with it. "...I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, Crawley," Richard started, annoyed that calling him Crawley wasn't doing anything for his ego today, "and God knows you're not someone I would like to turn to when in need-"

"Only God?" Matthew almost scoffed, but then remembered himself and looked down, ashamed.

But Richard wasn't having it. There it was, passive aggression. He raised an amused eyebrow"...better." He smiled, before swallowing sombrely. "I'm dying. I'm dying and I need to get my affairs in order. I want you to help me make a will."

"With your income, you don't have a will, why not?" Ever the lawyer.

"I have a will, but it's patchy – I didn't think it would have to be read for a while." He tried to joke, but it fell flat. "I want it ironclad, Matthew. I don't want any ruthless investors, or my ruthless sister," He added wryly, "taking more than what is owed them. So, what do you say? I'm not asking for a favour," Richard said firmly, repulsed by the very idea, "you'll be paid for your services, of course-"

"Why me?"Matthew frowned.

"Forgive me," Richard drawled, his tone sardonic, "I thought you were a lawyer-"

Matthew wasn't buying it. "Why me, Richard?"

Seeing Crawley undeterred, Richard scratched his chin thoughtfully and tried not to dwell on how much what he was going to say would cost him. He breathed a deep sigh. "...I need to be sure that Mary and our children will be provided for, protected, looked after..." Richard took a step forward into the room and put a hand on the back of the sofa to steady himself and his thoughts. "When I'm dead, it'll be out of my hands, I need a lawyer who'll see it through." He clenched his jaw, but continued. "...I need a man who'll see it through." Matthew swallowed at Richard's words, realising the older man wasn't simply talking of a will anymore. "Though it pains me, I can't think of anyone better for the job, can you?"

* * *

><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

Hope you liked it! Please review!


	6. Chapter 6

__**Righto, another hearty chapter so I hope you enjoy and please review! This has a lot of Richard in it, but you'll see why. Hope you're enjoying it so far, let me know your thoughts!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six:<strong>

_25__th__ January, 1930_

"Oh Mamie, stop – enough!" Richard glared at the young woman, batting her hands away. She flinched at his tone and he sighed, and tried to lower his voice. "I don't need any assistance, thank you."

A month later, things had gone from bad to worse. The doctors doubted the cancer was spreading particularly fast, but Richard's inability to digest properly had caused him to lose so much weight and water that he was left feeling very weak. And now, to add insult to injury, he was forced to take to a wheelchair. The same chair Matthew had sat in years before. It was older, needed dusting, and was worn around the edges, as if aware of who now sat in it.

Richard had pitied Matthew, of course he had. Not being able to walk is a dreadful business and no decent person would wish it on anyone. But now, _now_ he could empathise. At the time, Richard had thought the younger man fairly self-indulgent in his maudlin behaviour. If you can't walk, you don't cry about it – you just get on with it as best as you can. Matthew's behaviour, his temper, his despondency...well, suddenly it all made a lot more sense.

And Richard envied the chap. He'd lost the function of his legs in battle, in a war. Matthew was an injured soldier, a war hero. He couldn't walk, but he recovered his health. To even sit up straight in the chair was beginning to require effort on Richard's part. He could move his legs and stand if the need called for it, but his reasons for needing the chair embarrassed him and verged on degrading. To stand and walk not only drained him so, but it moved about his bows unnecessarily and he no longer had control in that respect. In short, it was best if he kept to the chair, in case he wet himself or worse.

Looking at the timid nurse before him, Richard realised that, whilst he could be less terse, he frankly couldn't be bothered. Cancer was a bitch. It didn't want to merely take his life, it wanted to humiliate him and play with him, until he was so tired that it could drag him quietly away into the night.

"B-but, Sir ," the young nurse swallowed, nervously, "you won't be able to get up the stairs-"

"You honestly think that you can carry me?" Richard drawled; of course, she couldn't carry him.

"Well, no," Mamie admitted, "but if one of the footman were to-"

"Oh," Richard scowled, slamming his arm down on his chair, "would you get out of my sight, woman!"

"What's going on here?" Mary asked, concerned as she crossed the hall. Her husband remained stubbornly silent, avoiding her gaze. She sighed inwardly; the poor nurse looked on the verge of crying. "Mamie?" She asked gently.

Mamie glanced nervously at her employer; Richard raised an eyebrow, daring her to respond. "Sir Richard said that he wished to bathe before dinner, but, you see," She went on, awkwardly, "I'm not strong enough to carry him up the stairs and-"

"I do _not_ need carrying, I'll walk."

"But," Mamie persisted, somewhat more confident with Lady Mary there, "you can't walk up the stairs, Sir, not anymore-"

"Right, I've had enough of you Miss Fitzpatrick." Richard said sharply. "If you are unable to perform your duties then you should-"

"Mamie," Mary smiled as the nurse's eyes widened in horror at her husband's words, "would you go fetch Samuel for me and then run Sir Richard a bath, please?"

Mamie only hesitated a moment, before bobbing and escaping. "Of course, milady."

Richard narrowed his eyes at the woman, as she made her way to the servants' staircase. He waited a beat, then turned back to Mary, his eyes dull.

"She's incompetent."

"No," Mary insisted, glaring down at Richard, "she's the fourth nurse in as many weeks – I'll not lose another one because you insist on being churlish."

Richard shrugged. "I don't like her."

"Well, I don't think she's likes you much either," She smiled humourlessly, "but you don't hear her complaining."

"Because she's paid to be in my company. If you were to pay me, I'm sure-"

Mary groaned in frustration, cutting him off. It was like talking to a wall. Why did everything have to be a fight? Since when did she become the enemy?

Seeing her mother coming out of the drawing room and heading towards them, she remembered what had had her attention before Richard had started yelling at Mamie. Her mother tried to smile as she approached, but her unhappiness was plain for all to see. Mary's face softened, "Oh, Mama, I'll come to your room in a while, ask O'Brien to set aside another cup of tea, hmm?"

Cora nodded, grasping her handkerchief. "...Yes, alright. Good evening, Richard." She said quietly, her hand on the banister, her heart not in it. Feeling another wave of tears coming, she turned and rushed quickly up the stairs.

Richard frowned, almost bemused. "What's wrong with your mother?"

"It's nothing, really." Mary sighed, not wanting to get into it. "She's a little upset, that's all..." Richard looked at his wife expectantly, Mary sighed again. "Papa's considering selling a small portion of the estate until things pick up. Mama doesn't want to lose the sunflower fields, but apparently it's a part of the land that Mr. Bartlett would like."

"Mr. Bartlett?" He frowned, his minding trying to skim over important names in the county. "The mill owner?" Mary shrugged, assuming so. "How many acres is your father planning to sell?"

"Not even a tenth of the estate – ninety acres. But no one's ever sold off any land before," She looked at Richard; seeing as he was unwilling to help her father, this wasn't a conversation she wanted to have. "...it's only possible when faced with bankruptcy. He wants half of the large lake and-"

"Which half?"

Mary blinked, startled by the oddness of the question. "...The half which looks on to the old oaks and the horse trail..." Whether that pleased him or not, she couldn't tell, but Mary was saved from her pondering as the new footman made his way towards them. "Good, Samuel, if you could assist Sir Richard up the stairs, please?" She smiled at Richard. "Once Mamie's finished, I'll come and help you bathe."

"I don't need help bathing, Mary."

"Being coy?" Mary smiled, trying to keep the mood light as she heard his tone sink further. "I've seen it all before, you know." Her husband's glare and the blush on Samuel's face told Mary what she already knew. She groaned inwardly, so determined to cheer Richard up, she was being inappropriate in front of the servants. She grimaced, embarrassed; it just wouldn't do. Glancing at the footman, Samuel took the hint and moved a few discreet steps to give them a moment. "Oh Richard, why do you keep fighting this?"

"Because, if I don't fight this, I might as well give up now." Richard said, clenching his jaw. "First, I needed you to fetch things for me, needed to sit down more often; now, I can barely walk around and you want to help wash me." He complained, a bitter taste in his mouth. "This isn't temporary, Mary, I'm not getting out of this wheelchair and, if you start bathing me, I won't be able to do without that either. I need to hold on to my independence for as long as possible-"

"I understand that, but I _want_ to help." She pleaded, coming to kneel by his chair. "Last night, you tried to get in the bath and wash and it took so long and so much effort that you were left in a foul mood and exhausted for the rest of the evening." She said reasonably, reaching out to grasp his hand. "I want to spare you that, I want to spare everyone that. Samuel, if you could-"

"Damn it, Mary," Richard snapped, snatching his hand away and remembering the nearby footman, all the people needed to tend to him. "I don't need you to speak for me, and I don't need your help. After all, isn't that why we hired that bloody nurse?"

He glared at her, and she glared back. How used they were to doing this, a battle of two stubborn souls. Only now, they were battered and bruised and it didn't take long for Richard to start to tire. He was thankful, and yet saddened, as Mary's eyes suddenly softened in defeat. She didn't want to fight with him anymore, and didn't bother trying to understand. If he wanted to pretend this wasn't happening, if he wanted to refuse her help and dismiss her wish to care for him, then so be it.

For Richard, however, it was a small victory. He loved Mary, but he didn't expect her to understand. He would hold on to any shred of dignity where he could find it and, when eventually he was dragged away in the night, he intended to go kicking and screaming until he had nothing more left to give.

* * *

><p><em>27<em>_th__ January, 1930_

Mary sighed inwardly as her daughter directed another familiar glare in her direction. She'd thought it would be nice to take the children to the sweet shop in the village, try to brighten their day as Richard dozed in the afternoon. There was a bigger shop in Ripon, but Mary had been coming here since she was a child and remembered how gleeful she had been when Mr. McFarland had let she and her sisters try the different sweets and chocolates on offer.

However, Emily seemed far from gleeful. In fact, she looked rather put out at having to spend her afternoon with her Mama. Looking at her daughter's eyes gaze boring at the jars of sweets, Mary remembered that same look from her childhood. How much grief had she given her own mother? She'd wanted to spend time with her Mama and yet felt it was babyish to ask for it. She wanted to be hugged and carried and read to and yet felt she'd outgrown all that. All of that was for Sybil and for Edith, not for her. _She may grumble, but Mary always gets on with it._ That's what Papa had always said about her. That she knew how to simply take things on the chin. Edith would whine and there was no making Sybil do something she didn't want to. Maybe it was an attempt to prove that she could be just as good as any son, she didn't know. Her family had always known that she was simply all talk, just full of hot air. In spite of everything Mary had ever said, when push had come to shove, she'd have married Patrick.

Mary had always made such a point to reassure her daughter that she was prized as highly as any son could be. That was why she'd always adored Emily so, she was like herself but her wit and her opinions came from a place of assured confidence rather than insecurity. It tended to take the sting out a little; Mary had been far crueller to Edith than Emmy had ever been to Peter. But following her daughter's gaze, Mary knew that she wasn't faced with a daughter on the cusp of puberty. She was faced with a daughter who was furious, furious with her mother for letting her father down. To Emily, it was no coincidence that her father had suddenly fallen sick when such a man was in their lives. Mary watched as Emily's eyes unconsciously narrowed, watching Peter laughing and hugging Matthew, as Matthew carried him around the shop. His little hands on Matthew's face, Matthew's grin from ear to ear...and her Mama did nothing to stop it. It was no wonder that God had seen fit to take her father away, when another waited in the wings.

Any progress Emily and Matthew had made, had since long gone, and Mary sighed inwardly, feeling considerably more claustrophobic as she was pushed further between a rock and a hard place. Rabbit adored Matthew and Emily hated him. And Mary didn't have the strength or energy to favour either side. She smiled tentatively at her daughter, gesturing towards the pear drops.

"I don't like the pear drops," Emily snapped at her mother's suggestion, "I want to buy some sherbet lemons."

"Alright," Mary said slowly, trying to keep calm. It was bad enough having to deal with a foul-tempered husband, but now...Emmy's favourites _were_ pear drops; why did she have to be so bloody obstinate? "Well, have those then. I don't mind, it's your pocket money. All that your great-grandmother asked was that you spend it wisely."

"Exactly, _my_ pocket money," Emmy said haughtily, "which is why I want the sherbets instead of the pear drops."

Mary opened her mouth to scold her daughter's tone, but was saved by Peter, directing Matthew to take him to their side of the shop. "I'm going to ask for both," The little boy grinned down at his sister, "and I want some milk bottles."

Mary grinded her teeth in annoyance. First, Emily's temper, now Rabbit's sweet tooth. "You're going to spend _all_ your money on sweets?" She asked, hoping her tone conveyed her thoughts on the matter.

"It's _his_ money," Emily insisted, smugly, "he can do what he likes, Mama."

"Matthew," Peter drawled, yanking on his friend's neck to pull himself closer, "I don't know how much they all add up to, will you help?"

"Of course I will." Matthew smiled, raising his eyebrows at the frostiness between mother and daughter and choosing to stay out of it. "Here, come on, let's see how much the liquorice wands are."

Mary narrowed his eyes as Matthew walked away, but felt Emily's eyes on her. She looked at her daughter, expectantly. Emmy pursed her lips, turning back to see what chocolate there was. "...I don't see why Carson couldn't take us to the sweet shop."

"Because Carson has a job to do." Mary said sharply and amazed at her daughter's desire to deliver blow after blow. "He can't be spending all day chasing after you."

Any guilt she felt berating her daughter was spared Mary, as the young man behind the desk came to inquire as to what she'd like. "Yes, good morning, we'll have a quarter pound of sherbet lemons please and a quarter pound of pear drops.

Emmy shook her head, automatically. "I don't want-"

"They're not for you," Mary lied, knowing her daughter would regret not picking the pear drops, "they are for me." Emily looked up, surprised, but said nothing. "But, if you would like one or two," Mary said, going for magnanimous, "I think a pretty smile and a 'please Mama' would convince me to share." Emmy narrowed her eyes, but again said nothing. She's break eventually, Mary thought, no one can resist pear drops.

"I'm sure the little lady has a very pretty smile, indeed. There's nothing like sweets to keep children happy." The young man smiled. Mary raised an eyebrow; he looked hardly out of infancy himself. The man glanced over at Matthew as he made his way back to Mary. "Do you and your husband have just the two?"

Matthew's eyes widened, so flabbergasted he didn't notice Peter pulling on his lapel for more attention. "...Oh, we're not – that is," He swallowed, stumbling. Was he sweating? He felt like he was sweating, "she's not-"

"We're not married." Mary smiled pleasantly, rolling her eyes at Matthew's predictable reaction. "This is my cousin, Mr. Crawley and these are my children, Emily and Peter. I'm Lady-"

"Lady Mary." The young man breathed, going red, not even noticing his interruption. "Your husband is..." Mary's heart didn't bother going out to him, as he trailed off awkwardly, "I only thought, the way your son is with Mr. Crawley, I..."

"Is there a problem, milady?" An older gentleman asked deferentially, glaring at the young man.

"Not at all, Mr. McFarland," Mary smiled at the familiar shop owner, "it was simply a question of mistaken identity."

"Yes well, I am sorry, milady." Mr. McFarland smiled apologetically. "Please forgive me nephew, Freddy – he and his Mam have only just moved into the village." Mary nodded, trying to appear interested. The elderly man went on, sympathetically. "I hope your husband's feeling better – everyone was sad to hear about Sir Richard being sick an' all."

Mary doubted that, but looked grateful. The village had known Mary from the day she'd been born and had taken her children into their hearts, but Richard...it was one of the worst-kept secrets that Lord Grantham didn't like his son-in-law and the village, devoted to their Earl, were more than happy to dislike Sir Richard as well. He was a city man, a business man who liked innovation and change and that sort didn't mix well with a country village in the middle of Yorkshire.

"Well, we're taking each day as it comes, but thank you for your concern. I know that I can always count of this village for its support." Mary smiled as Mr. McFarland blushed at the compliment.

"Aye, milady. That you can."

Walking back up to Downton, Mary was cheered to see Emily's mood improve as she skipped ahead with her brother, a rare sight, sharing their sweets as they went. She could hear Peter's inane chatter, his desire to impress his sister as clear as day, and though Emily seldom spoke, her voice was soft, her fondness apparent. She and Matthew hung back walking together. She smirked a little to see Matthew still looking uncomfortable, a faint blush lingering on his cheeks.

Mary looked at Matthew from the corner of eye. "Are you still flustered by Mr. McFarland's nephew. It was an honest mistake to make."

He turned sharply to her, but relaxed at her bemused expression. "I know - when am I not flustered? Actually," He smiled slightly, "I think I'm more surprised at how level-headed _you_ were in there."

"Is that an insult?" Mary asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

"Only intrigue, I assure you."

"You can blame my husband." She said, wryly. "I've found that, at any one time, only one person in the marriage can afford to act irate and unreasonable and Richard seems unwilling to relinquish the role to me."

"Well," He ventured, his hands in his pockets and his tone careful, "these are difficult times – you mustn't be so hard on him."

She glared at Matthew, half-heartedly; easier said than done. "I was pleasant through most of December and, after the New Year," She said defensively, starting to feel rather irate herself, "I went to great pains to keep my patience, but recently he's-"

"Dying, Mary," He interrupted, his voice firm. She flinched. "He's _dying_ – isn't he entitled to be a little unreasonable?"

She couldn't disagree but she didn't have it in her to agree either. Had it really only been in December that he had told her of his illness? She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't known. The days were blurring together and in all of them, she was simply fed up. Would she and Richard ever talk without arguing? Would they ever share a fond look across the dining table? Laugh together again? She doubted it.

She sighed. "...Is this really how we're going to spend our last months together? With him, angry, at everything. My family are avoiding me, whilst Peter is scared to let Richard out of his sight lest he suddenly disappear. Emily..." She smiled humourlessly, looking at her daughter's back as she ran hand-in-hand with Peter. "Well, Emily is her father's daughter, so she's moody and blames me for everything. It's my fault that the chauffeur forgot to pick her up from her ballet class, it's my fault that Margo bit her again, it's my fault that the sweet shop doesn't have the right sort of sherbet lemons, it's my fault her father is dying...and, in all of this, I'm supposed to be calm and nice, to be serene, despite wanting to scream and yell and lash out at everyone." She finished, her teeth starting to clench. She shook her head; she shouldn't think about it. Thinking about it only made her resentful.

"I know - it's hard." He offered, his eyes gazing over her hat, her hair before looking ahead of them again. "You cannot fight against how you feel and no one reacts to this sort of thing in the way that they expect."

Balling her fists, she finally came to a stop on the path. Realising she was no longer walking with him, Matthew stopped also. She endeavoured to keep her voice calm. "...I wish you wouldn't be so understanding - you do show me up. You're supposed to berate me, to accuse me of being selfish and insist that I put my husband first."

"You're selfish and you need to put your husband first." He didn't miss a beat.

She sighed again. "Matthew, please-"

"I mean it, Mary." He continued, not breaking his gaze. Though she had asked it of him, he knew that this wasn't really what Mary wanted to hear. She wasn't one for talking about such things; it was a sign of her own fatigue that she was opening up about her feelings about Richard. He would be kind, as his mother had asked, but probably not quite as Isobel had envisioned. Mary would never forgive herself if Richard left this world thinking his wife was angry with him. "He's facing his own demise," he said bluntly, "I think you can forgive him for being bad-tempered."

And with that, Matthew carried on walking, feeling Mary's eyes burning into his back. Whether she was thankful or not, he didn't know.

* * *

><p><em>28<em>_th__ January, 1930_

As Robert sipped his tea that morning, he nearly choked in surprise as the door opened and his son-in-law was wheeled in by his nurse. He remained speechless as Richard dismissed Mamie and asked Carson to make him up a small plate. Cora always breakfasted in bed, as did his Mama, and so, since Edith had married, Robert had dined alone. In recent months, he dined with the children, but it was a Tuesday and so had already left for school. In fact, he'd quite relished the idea of breakfasting alone today. With a newspaper, a boiled egg and a cup of Earl Grey, what more could Lord Grantham want? He tried to hide his shock, but did so poorly; Richard didn't breakfast. Healthy or sick, he started his day with coffee, his own paper and nothing more.

"Good morning, Richard." Robert said suddenly, realising how he'd rudely stayed silent. "You're up?"

"As in standing, unfortunately no," Richard said dryly, nodding in thanks as Carson put his plate and tea in front of him, "but I did think that it was high time I came down for breakfast."

"Right, good." Robert offered, pointlessly. What a long breakfast it would be. "Is Mary still asleep?"

"Yes, she's been ever so good, I thought I'd leave her be." Buttering his toast, Robert was pleased to hear Richard sound sincere, but looked up as he felt eyes upon him. He waited as Richard coughed, awkwardly. "...I have something for you."

"Oh?"

From an inside pocket in his jacket, Richard took out his chequebook and ripped out a written page from it. Holding it out to Robert, he kept his eyes trained on a spot behind Robert's head. "No contracts. No repayment. Think of it as," He almost grimaced at the words, "...a gift."

Robert nearly grinned at how uncomfortable the younger man was, but swallowed as he saw the figure written. It was enough to save the estate. It was more than enough. A burst of shame coursed through him at the idea of accepting so much money from anyone, let alone a man he didn't like, let alone his daughter's dying husband that he didn't like. "That's very kind of you, Richard, but I don't need..." He couldn't even bring himself to say the number allowed, "I cannot accept such a generous amount. There's bad blood between us, which we can't seem to get rid of – I know Mary's put you up to this," He smiled understandingly, "but it's alright, it's not your place to-"

"Mary doesn't know that I've had a change of heart. Nevertheless, I have." He placed the cheque on the table and pushed it to Robert. He smiled. "It's ironic that you say there's bad blood, because there's no blood shared by us at all. I've always felt as if that has kept us divided, you and I." Robert didn't comment, but his brow quirked at Richard's honesty. "However, even if I struggle to see you as my family, you are _Mary's_ family and I know it would please her if I gave you the money. I haven't been the easiest to live with over the last few weeks, if not months, and I know this will put things right between us."

Robert considered him, thoughtfully. "I'll talk to her, if you like. Downton is my responsibility, and you shouldn't have to..." He sighed, unhappily, "...it's a debt that I can't repay..."

"It's not a debt. It's more of an exchange. We can even shake on it – I know how your sort love to do that." The corners of Richard's lips twitched, before he looked at his father-in-law most seriously, "I give you this money on the promise that you will look after my wife and my children-"

"Of course I will, they're my family!"

"I know they are." He said patiently, sensing Robert's indignation at the idea that he would do anything less than his duty. "I don't often know how Mary is feeling, but having lived with her for the last decade, having moved her to Haxby, around London and to New York, I am convinced that my wife doesn't care for too much change." He grinned inwardly as he mind roamed over all the times she'd screamed at him for uprooting their family once more. Nothing to be proud of, of course, but she was terribly ravishing when she was mad about something. He raised a subtle eyebrow; he doubted her father would want to hear that.

He licked his dry lips and willed the man at the head of the table to understand. "She can prepare for it as much as she likes, but I can say without conceit, that when I'm dead, Mary won't know what to with herself." Richard said, being more honest with Lord Grantham than he'd ever been before. Although, he thought wryly, this was arguably the longest conversation the two of them had shared alone. "She'll be horrible, I know she will – and when she, snidely I imagine," He smirked at the image, "is taking herself off with the children, I want you to drag her back into this house and to not let her leave, until you are sure that she is ready. Until you are sure that she is Mary again."

Struck by Richard's concern for his daughter, Robert thought back to his last words. Never had he given Richard credit were credit was due. He may have married his daughter, but in his eyes and the rest of the family's, Richard had always been someone to simply bear. Things hadn't really changed. They all treated Mary as they always had, put her in her old room when she visited, Cora bought her daughter dresses with her pin money as if Mary was still unmarried and put Richard through the wringer as if he was still a suitor. In the case of all his children, Robert had conducted himself simply; the relationship of father and daughter trumped that of man and wife. He'd never really given Richard a chance to show what sort of husband he really was and it saddened Robert that he'd probably never know. One thing, however, was clear. Richard was not simply asking a father to take care of his daughter. No, this was a man asking another man, who he knew he could trust in this matter, to take care of his wife. Looking over the younger man, Robert nodded, gently, content to see a side of Richard which he liked.

"...Of I course I will, they're your family."

Looking at Robert for a moment, Richard seemed to find whatever answer he was looking for. Satisfied, he spooned sugar into his tea, his eyes flitting over the cheque. "Good, good, now put that away; I would hate to die before you've had a chance to cash it."

His thanks clear, Robert somehow knew to speak the words aloud would make his son-in-law uncomfortable and tarnish whatever moment they had just shared. Richard was pleased when the Earl folded the cheque and pocketed it into his jacket without another word. Sipping his tea, Robert moved on; neither would speak of the money to each other again. "Are you - does Dr. Clarkson really think that there's no possibility of a recovery? No new radical method that you can try?"

"No, I'm afraid not." Richard shook his head, already resigned. "I already inquired about that the other day, with the good doctor as well as my other specialists. All they recommend now are old wives' tales. Dr. Simpson has me drinking green tea and eating a lot of beetroot." He raised a wry eyebrow. "When I go, of course, is anyone's guess. Although Clarkson more or less said that, barring a miracle, I won't outlast the year – his best bet is that it'll all be over by May."

"Well," Robert smiled, a little awkward at Richard's blunt words, "God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform."

Another wry eyebrow met the other. "I'm a Sunday morning Christian, Robert, and that's only when I don't care to sleep in - I doubt that I'm high on God's list of things to do."

* * *

><p>By the early afternoon, Richard's mood had darkened. Robert was touring the estate and Cora had taken Mary to make some charitable visits around the village. Horrified at the idea of spending the idea with Miss Fitzpatrick nervously by his side, he'd given her the afternoon off. Now, he was alone, alone and bored. He considered reading a book, but left in the drawing room, he knew he didn't have the strength to wheel himself there. All he needed to do was wheel to the fireplace and pull for the bell to summon Carson, but he couldn't do it. His arms could probably manage it but his pride was getting in the way. Even as his throat went dry and thirst set in, even as he felt the urge to relieve himself, he sat unmoving, facing the window, looking out on to the lawn. Outside seemed to sparkle, the dewy grass glistening in the winter sunshine – it was grossly unfair. Where were the stormy clouds and the torrential rain when needed? Everyone was happier than he was, even Mother Nature herself.<p>

"May I sit down?"

Richard startled at the voice beside him. He turned, first seeing a cane, before looking up into the piercing eyes of Lady Grantham. She had asked a question, but he knew immediately by her tone that he could only give her one answer. He gestured to the chair beside him and cleared his throat. "By all means..."

Taking her time, she sat primly on the chair beside him which looked out onto the lawn also. "I hear that you are to bail my son out." She said casually, her eyes trained on the window.

Richard closed his eyes, tiredly. If he didn't want this conversation with Robert, he certainly didn't want it with the man's mother. "My my, news certainly travels fast." He sighed, uncomfortable. "...There's no need to thank me-"

"I wasn't going to," Violet continued, leaning on her cane a little, "it's high time you stepped up to the plate and opened your wallet. Given a reversal of circumstances, Robert would have signed you a cheque without hesitation."

He looked at her in disbelief. He didn't want her thanks, but he wasn't sure if her refusal to give it should amuse or infuriate him. He raised an eyebrow, pleased to see her shift slightly in her seat. "Really?"

"Oh, he would have never let you forget it," She admitted, finally turning to look at him, "but yes, _really_..." Letting that hang in the air, he assumed that Violet took his silence for agreement, for she soon looked perfectly comfortable once more. Lifting her head up, her eyes roamed his face. "I don't like you, Richard-"

"If you're not going to thank me," He said dryly, "do you have to insult me?"

"But I've come to respect you." She went on, ignoring his interruption. "You've proven yourself to be a good husband, a good father and, on occasion, a gentleman." Violet said it with no affection, but Richard nodded slowly, surprised that her tone was not mocking.

It wasn't enough to shake him from his mood, however, and he responded again with sarcasm. "Well, at least I can die a happy man now."

Clucking her tongue, Richard knew before she spoke that he was about to be rebuked. "I'm sure you think that I'm finding this vaguely entertaining, but any simpleton knows that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit." Her words quick, her tone sharp, he couldn't help but swallow. She sighed, glancing at his wheelchair. "...I know it's trying, we don't like to think about it too much, but we all have our preferred ways of bowing out and I doubt this was yours."

"Bowing out?" He barked a laugh, wishing the doctors had injected a little of this humour into his prognosis – it may have lightened the mood. "I'm being yanked off the stage. My life has become a war and I lost before the battle had even begun."

Violet's nose wrinkled in disgust at his tone: self-pitying. "We all lose in the end, Richard. We are born to die."

Why was she here? Was this the old woman's attempt to be helpful, to be consoling? He blinked. "And Mary thinks that I'm morbid, Lord..."

"Not me, I'm afraid, a little known writer going by the name of Shakespeare came up with that one."

He chose to ignore the unspoken insult of plebeian at the end of that, and thought over her words. Violet was wrong, not everyone lost. Everyone died, but not everyone _lost_. If he'd been taken peacefully in the night as an old man, that would have been a victory. If he'd been perched behind his desk and died from a sudden brain aneurysm, that would have been a victory. If he'd been in the arms of his wife making love and suffered a fatal heart attack, now _that_ would have been a victory. But no, he'd offended the gods and now they wanted to make him aware of when he was going to die, what was killing him, how it would take him. He was going to die a starved man, a skinny man, a helpless excuse for what was once one of the richest and most powerful magnates in the country. If everyone lost in the end, then there was losing and there was _losing_ and Richard was forced to live and die the latter.

"...I don't lose."

She didn't break his gaze; her voice was not harsh, but firm. "You don't have a choice."

"So, I must simply accept the inevitable and allow myself to display every ugly consequence of this ugly disease?" He asked, sensing himself slightly hysterical, "let each symptom take hold of me without a fight?"

"You can do whatever you wish." Violet said, remaining calm. He blew out a shaky breath. "It merely seems to me that you waste so much of your day being angry. You're weak, you can't eat, you can barely stand – you don't have to accept that, but it is what it is." She shrugged as much as a lady can, "There's no use in crying over milk that has spilt, is spilling and will continue to do so no matter how often you lose your temper."

It's happening. You're dying. Get over it. He understood the message loud and clear, but there was too much left unsaid. "I just..." He shook his head, and stared at his clasped hands, "Mary tries to help, feels obligated to do so..." He trailed off, he didn't know what he was saying. Richard wasn't quite sure himself how he felt, how could he put it into words?

"Is this where I'm supposed to disagree with you?" Violet asked, raising an elegant eyebrow. "She's your wife – of course, she feels obligated. Any woman who says that they are happy to care for their husband when he's dying is a liar. How can one be happy? When my late husband was on his deathbed, I wanted to be anywhere but with him, but I stuck it out." Her eyes were back on the window again, her gaze flicking across the pane. Richard hid his shock at such an admission. No one had ever spoken to him of the late Lord Grantham, never mind such an intimate memory. "I wiped his forehead and fed him broth; I did it all, because that was my purpose, _my_ obligation. Did I want to do it? No." She turned back, her confidence suddenly back. "Would I have had anyone else do it but me? Absolutely not."

He said nothing and collected his thoughts. He didn't know the Dowager's husband. Had they shared a marriage like his and Mary's or had they fallen in...even his mind halted over the world. He sighed inwardly. Well, he supposed, one admission deserved another. "...It's not enough." He flinched, feeling his words to be too loud. "Simply being able to call her my wife is not enough. I don't want her to miss me as her husband, I want her to miss _me_."

Violet nodded slowly. It had been scratched away, that hard and, in her opinion, smarmy and arrogant shell which had kept hidden the man before her. Pity it was cancer that had to do the scratching. Her confidence remained and she spoke the words that she knew he wouldn't believe, but what he most wanted to hear.

"I know my granddaughter and I know that she'll miss you because – for reasons unbeknownst to me – she loves you."

"She doesn't-"

"Yes, she does." She said, without hesitation. She tilted her head and really looked at him, a smile gracing her features. "What a narrow view of the world the younger generations have! You're not a man who believes that love is all Byron and flowers and burning passions, are you?" He gulped at what he considered to be an accusation. He hadn't set out to be that man; he wasn't like that, was he? "That at the touch of love everyone becomes a poet?"

He pouted his lips, trying to shake his embarrassment. "Shakespeare, again?"

"Plato, actually."

He nodded, but felt her eyes still boring into him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly exhausted by everything. "...I never used to be, but then Mary accepted me and doubt started to creep in-"

"_That's_ love." Violet said, almost cheerfully, tapping her cane against the ground. "It's doubt and fear and being with someone even when they are hideous, ailing or simply miserable. It's pretending that their little habits don't aggravate you and it's being so bored with the sound of the their voice that you consider giving your love to somebody else. But you can't," She looked at him knowingly, "because that someone is the _only_ someone who is willing to put up with you when _you_ are hideous or ailing or miserable." She leant on her cane, as if imparting a great secret. "It's like being on a train in which, often, you cannot stand the person you are sat next to, but you cannot fathom taking the journey with anyone else.

Without warning, her hand shot out and grasped his own and squeezed hard for a moment. He blinked, her hand then suddenly letting go. Violet seemed closer and, instead of flinching, Richard found himself keeping her gaze and trusting her words. "Mary loves you because she'll mourn _you_. Not for being a good husband, a good father or even for, on occasion, being a gentleman," She allowed herself a sardonic smile, "she'll purely mourn that you are not by her side. And that is what love is."

He nodded, feeling himself smile as well. "Something tells me that was a Violet original."

"A Dowager Countess of Grantham original to you," Her haughty tone returning, her gaze a little less welcoming, "Sir Richard, but yes, it was."

"...Matthew-"

"It's different." She put a hand up to stop him, hearing Richard's voice catch on the man's mere name. "They are different. What Mary has with you is unique to you and to Mary and _no one_ can take that away from you." Her tone was unyielding on that point. She titled her head, reluctantly. "Of course, understanding your disposition, I realise that may not be what you want to hear. I cannot promise you that she'll spurn him until she's as old and grey as I am, but then again," This time, her smile was simply soft, "...I don't think you want to hear that either. Love is, after all, putting someone else's happiness before one's own - one's pride always takes a battering."

"Oh, I believe you on that score." He smiled dryly, remembering how Mary often did nothing for his ego. He looked back out on the lawn, still feeling it glisten mockingly. "But shouldn't I feel warm inside at the idea of Mary loving me? Shouldn't it make everything seem a little better, with her by my side?"

Leaning back in her chair and following his gaze, Violet suddenly felt very old. How many years had it been since her husband had died? She'd lost count and, though it'd heartened him to have his wife by his bedside, his last words were of fear at the unknown, of going alone. Dying was brief for some, drawn out for others, and until one did it, one really knew nothing about it. "I wouldn't know." She said honestly. "There are no rights or wrongs anymore, Richard. Mary can hold your hand until the end, but you'll still have to make this journey alone. What you think and feel, what you do, is no one's business but your own if that is how you'd like it." Stiffly, getting up from her chair, she looked outside once more before turning away and patting his shoulder as she walked by.

No one could judge; no one could instruct. Dying was painful and upsetting and demoralising and how he faced it was his own choice. He couldn't choose to live, but he could still...Violet sighed softly, her back faced away from him and uttered words, which to her own ears, were very vague.

"Everyone must die their own deaths, my dear."

* * *

><p><em>30<em>_th__ January, 1930_

""One spoonful to be taken at bedtime." But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail had bread and milk and blackberries, for supper." Richard raised his eyebrows, surprised at how happy Rabbit looked; it was an awful little book. Choosing to say nothing, he smiled at the two children either side of him. "...And that's it, that's the end. Alright, time for bed."

"That was nice."

Richard simply nodded at his son's assessment, content to have his children both curled to his side on the bed. He hadn't read to them like this in so long, too long. It felt good to do it again, it brought back so many wonderful memories – regardless of how dull the bedtime story was. Emily glanced across at her brother, snorting at his ringing endorsement. "You only like it because you think it's about you."

"It's 'the Tales of Peter Rabbit', Emmy," Peter smiled smugly, "- it is about me!"

"Don't be simple, Peter, it was-"

"Children, what did we talk about it?" Richard said patiently, clasping their shoulders and pulling them closer for a moment. Emmy sighed, hearing the words to come. "We don't fight and we certainly don't go to bed angry. Now, kiss each other goodnight." Peter looked willing, but his daughter recoiled. Richard rolled his eyes. ".._Emily_..."

"...Goodnight, Peter."

Rabbit smiled at his sister, holding on to Nicholas as he descended from the bed. "'Night night."

Emily did so as well and affection flickered across Richard's face as his daughter straightened her nightdress and, despite her brother's batting hands, smoothed Rabbit's hair. Not yet ten and she was already turning into quite the young lady. Feeling her father's eyes upon her, she smiled back at him. "You're feeling alright this evening?"

He gave her his best wink. "Better than ever."

She narrowed her eyes, thoughtfully. "Mama is taking care of you, isn't she?"

"Your mother is taking wonderful care of me," Richard said earnestly, gently easing his legs off the bed, so he could sit up, "because she loves me, just as she takes wonderful care of you and your brother, because she loves you too." Emmy stayed quiet, but her silence was telling. "Don't be angry with your Mama, hmm? These things happen, Emmy, and it's awful and I don't like it anymore than you do, but I know you - you're strong, you'll be alright."

"I won't." She shook her head, accepting the hands he held out for her. "What if I say that I'm not strong, will you stay?"

"...No, Emily, I shan't be staying long." He smiled. "There are some things that not even your father, in all his wisdom, can change. I've tried my hardest, given it my best shot – it's not to be. And if something cannot be changed, there's no point crying about it. You must accept it as best as you can."

Her brows furrowed in that stubborn way that they were used to. "I won't accept it."

"Yes, you will and I don't want you to feel guilty about that." He said, flicking the end of her nose. She grinned and batted him away and he grinned back, pleased to see that she had Mary's smile and not his own. "Now, off to bed with you."

"Goodnight, Father." Emily smiled, kissing his cheek. "I love you."

He paused for only a moment, wondering at how those three words had ever been difficult for him. "...and I love you, my darling girl. Goodnight."

And content to see her father far brighter than she'd seen him in weeks, Emily left the room. Her brother, who watched the whole exchange with fascination, clinging to his old friend Nicholas, was hot on her heels.

"Peter," Richard called out softly, "a moment, please."

The little boy turned back, his eyes wide and looking terribly sweet in his pyjama set. "Something wrong, Father?"

"Not at all." Richard assured him, smiling and patting the spot on the bed beside him. "I have something for you."

At the promise of a gift, Rabbit's eyes lit up and he quickly bounded up to his father and heaved himself back on to the bed. Richard had to stop himself from grinning as his son bit his lip in anticipation. But he couldn't help but snort as Peter squeezed his eyes shut for the surprise. Opening one of Rabbit's little hands, his father placed in it something small but heavy.

Richard watched as his boy's eyes flickered open and looked down at what lay in his hand, pleased to see a spark of recognition in his eyes.

"Your watch?" Rabbit blurted in awe, gently cradling the watch in his hands as if it were an injured bird. This was a grown-up gift; no one had given him a gift like this before.

"My pocket watch. My grandfather gave it to my father, my father gave it to me and now I'm giving it to you."

"Why?"

Richard sighed inwardly. They'd been over this so many times, did he still not understand? "We talked about this, Rabbit."

"You're going away," Peter said obviously. He knew that; Mama and Father kept reminding him of that fact. But that didn't mean it made sense. His son frowned, "...but won't you be wanting it when you get back?"

"No," Richard said slowly, feeling his chest grow tight at Rabbit's innocent question, "remember, I won't be coming back."

"Not even for a visit?"

"No," Richard said again, trying to ignore the hope on Peter's face, "but if you keep this watch, then you won't miss me _too_ much." He let that settle and Rabbit seemed to accept it. It wouldn't change anything, of course. The dear boy wouldn't feel it until he was gone. Giving his father a timid smile, Peter put the watch in his pocket. He looked so small, so young, so bewildered by it all. His father had given him a watch; he didn't understand what it all meant. And something inside his father started to hurt. His mind looking back – as it so often did now, stripped of being able to look forward- Richard realised that was how he'd mostly thought of Peter. Small, young, bewildered. Girls were for nurturing in the nursery, Peter wasn't old enough to mould into a man and so he'd never really got that involved. Girls needed kisses and cuddles; boys were made of tougher stuff.

Looking at his son, in stripped pyjamas, unsure what to say, his expression guarded but his eyes trusting, Richard thought back to his own childhood. Shy and attached to his mother, that was how his own father had described him. And that was how Richard had always described Peter. Gazing down at his beautiful face, those soulful eyes, knowing that little kind heart...his son was much more than he had ever given him credit for and it pained Richard that he'd never see the great man he knew his dear Peter Rabbit would become.

Resting a gentle hand on his shoulder, he willed his boy to commit what he said to memory. "...I'm hard on you, Peter, I know that. My father was hard on me and I hated it because I wasn't too sure of myself and loved my mother like you do...As a man, I thought it was good for me, but I forgot what it was like as a boy." Smoothing his hair out of his young face, Richard gave Nicholas a friendly pat. "I've treated Emily differently, better even – I thought girls were more..."

He shrugged. He didn't know what he thought anymore. Richard sighed, feeling his eyes glistening just looking at the lad. "...I had an entire speech planned, how you were to be the man of the house and it was your responsibility to..." He trailed off, those big brown eyes could melt any heart. Richard kissed his son on the forehead to swallow any tears. "Look at you, my sweet boy, five years old-

"I'm nearly six, actually."

He grinned at Rabbit's indignation. "Ah, my mistake. My father never said it, and I've been wary to say it, thinking it would make you soft, but if I could do it all over I would say it every day." He clasped his son's shoulder a little firmer and looked at him most seriously, most sincerely.

"I love you, Peter."

"...You do?"

Richard gasped. The question broke his heart, but the hope in his voice mended it all at once. It wasn't too late. "With all that I am and more than you will ever know." He'd never been so sure of anything in his life. "If you forget everything else I've ever said, or everything we've ever done together, try very hard to remember that."

"You love me," Peter repeated, grinning, tilting his head as if testing it out. It sounded so natural to young Rabbit that he simply assumed he'd been told it before, that he was told it all the time. "Like I love you."

"Yes, that's my boy." Richard swallowed emotionally, clapping his son on the back. "Go on, join your sister in the land of nod." He could only smile as his son gave his best salute.

"Goodnight Rabbit and goodnight my dear Nicholas."

* * *

><p>Walking across the landing and back into the nursery, Peter halted as a sight greeted him that he'd never seen before. His sister lay in her bed, crying into a pillow. Her little body wracked with sobs, Peter hovered in the doorway, unsure what to do. Emily didn't cry like that. She got mad and yelled and stamped her foot and any tears were cried in frustration. But now, she seemed desperately sad.<p>

Peter's brow furrowed for a moment before he rushed over to her beside. Climbing up, he shook her shoulder. At his touch, Emmy sat up, ashamed at being caught, and her sobs quickly turned to sniffing. Holding her knees to her chest, she wiped her cheek s and looked at her brother warily.

"Emmy, you never – why are you crying? Are you sad?"

The young girl shook her head; Peter never understood anything. And she was hardly in the mood to sugar-coat. "He's dying."

Peter nodded sympathetically, but was one for looking on the bright side of things. He shrugged. "We'll meet again."

Letting out another a sob, she cursed her brother for being so naive. "No, Peter! He's not just going away, he's going for good!" At his frown, she slapped down on her mattress in annoyance. "Like Grandpa Mark and all of your pet worms – he's not coming back!"

Peter blinked at her tone, but tried not to get upset. Emily only got angry when he cried and, seeing the tears rolling down her face, he thought it best that he keep things together. Feeling the weight of his father's watch in his pocket, Peter wracked his brain for something helpful to say. ""_He will wipe every tear..." _Peter frowned, looking at his sister's glistening cheeks and trying to remember the rest, "_from their eyes a-and...death shall be no more."_ This time his sister blinked, stunned. He grinned. "You're not the only one who listened to Mrs. Turner."

"Do you believe that?" Not enjoying the worry in her tone, Emily let Peter come get in the bed with her. She said nothing as he placed Nicholas snugly between them.

"I don't really know what it means," Peter shrugged honestly, "but I think that when things die...they look like they're sleeping, don't they? They just can't wake up, so...they must be dreaming. I'll see Father in my dreams," He smiled assuredly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "– I saw Walter the Fourth in a dream last night."

She liked the thought, but the mention of a dead worm annoyed her. What did Peter know? He was just a child. "But that's not real, Peter!"

"It's real to me!" He insisted, pulling at the cover for Emmy to share. "Last night, I saw Walter and it made me miss him less and, if I can see Father like that, it doesn't matter if it's real, does it?" It hadn't meant for the question to be rhetorical, but he felt so sure and his sister seemed so scared. She wasn't saying anything – rare in itself – so Peter smiled, mentally patting himself on the back. He reached for the book on her bedside table. "Oh cheer up, Emmy – here, you can read to me, if you want! I know you don't like Peter Rabbit, but I don't mind if you read Alice..." He trailed off, looking hopeful.

Sighing dramatically, Emily wiped her eyes and accepted the book. She pushed the idea that she needed this more than he did to the back of her mind. Surprisingly, she didn't throw the bear out of the bed. "...Alright, but I shan't be doing the voices."

Looking at her brother, she was amused to see him raise an eyebrow. Who couldn't do that in this family? He clucked his tongue like an old man and shifted closer to her.

"Doesn't surprise me."

* * *

><p><em>31<em>_st__ January, 1930_

"And it's all settled, then?" Richard asked, still finding looking up at people most unsettling.

"Yes, yes," Matthew assured him, "everything's as you wanted. I've tied the knots pretty tight – unless there's some money hidden away that you're not telling me about..." He trailed off cautiously, waiting for Richard to fill in any blanks.

"Not that I'm aware of, no," Richard answered honestly, "and nothing's been put too out of kilter with my cheque to Lord Grantham?"

"Not at all. The children still have fortunes that are frankly staggering." He glanced around the hall nervously before back down at Richard. Just them alone, in the grand entrance of the abbey, he could feel their words reverberating off the walls. "...Thank you, by the by, for what you did for Downton, it was-"

"Please, let us not speak of it." Richard held up a hand, most reluctant to speak of it. "I have already had to accept Cora's thanks this morning, I don't think I can cope with yours as well. I should be thanking you, for everything."

Matthew wasn't quite sure why he deserved Richard's gratitude. He assumed for sorting out the will, but the older man had such a knowing look in his eye and the words seemed to hold more of a gravitas than a simple thanks. Licking his lips, he frowned as Richard looked almost amused at their exchange and Matthew was left feeling as if he was missing out on a grand joke, as if there was something on his face and he didn't know it.

Whether he liked it or not, he'd come to have a certain understanding of Sir Richard Carlisle. He knew his looks and his tone and didn't blame the man for hating him. Richard didn't hate him, of course – he merely disliked Matthew intensely.

Still, Matthew couldn't tell if he was surprised when Richard looked at him squarely and held out a hand to shake.

The corners of Richard's mouth twitched. "No hard feelings, eh Crawley?"

Looking him over, Matthew smiled a little and grasped his hand. "No."

"What are you two talking about so secretively?" Whatever moment the two were sharing was thankfully interrupted by the woman of their affections. Walking down the stairs, pulling her gloves on, she tried to keep any anxiousness out of her tone. Glancing at Matthew questioningly, he shook his head gently. Whatever it was, it didn't matter.

His eyes quickly flicking between the two, Richard tried not to grimace and turned his head to his wife smiling. "Oh, nothing to worry your pretty head over, my dear. Shall we take that walk?" His smile turned dry. "Or, more precisely, shall you walk and push my chair in whatever direction you so choose?"

"That sounds lovely. I'll fetch you your coat and hat-"

"Nonsense, I've got a blanket," Richard gestured towards the tartan blanket draped over his legs, thinking what a palaver it would be to get his coat on, "I'll be fine. The cold air will be good for me."

Mary frowned. "You'll catch a chill-"

"and catch my death? Too late for that, I'm afraid." He smiled cheerfully, as Mary shook her head bemused at his joke of considerably poor taste. "I wouldn't mind going down by the lake." Nodding, Mary went to push his chair, before Richard held out a hand to stop her. Pouting thoughtfully, he glanced at Matthew who seemed ready to leave. "...Matthew, the children are in library. Peter's playing with the train set his grandfather bought him, I would get down on the ground and help..." He said wryly, before trailing off.

Matthew's eyes widened at the implication, as did Mary's. The younger man swallowed, but nodded agreeably. "Oh, I would, why – of course! I'll just..." Trailing off himself, Matthew was quick to throw a questioning look at Mary before smiling and heading off to the library.

Glancing at the back of her husband's head, Mary shook her head in wonderment at his ability to continually surprise her. The idea of him suggesting Matthew play with the children would have been unthinkable mere months ago and yet, here he was, putting – perhaps not his daughter's but - his son's wants before his own. He did the right thing and Mary was proud of him. Still, she had to bite her lip to stop from smiling; it always killed Richard to do the right thing when he didn't want to.

Richard sighed in his chair, guessing his wife's thoughts. She didn't need to see his face to know he had adopted a warning eyebrow.

"Not a word, Mary."

* * *

><p>By the time they had reached the lake, the sun was beginning to grow heavy and set. Everything looked richer at dusk and Richard inhaled the outside air happily. A few days before, he'd resented this, the beauty here. Now, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. The old oaks across the way, the sunflower fields which would be near glowing in the summer, the winter dew still clinging hard on to the grass and scattering the light – it was a good day to be alive.<p>

Seeing the awe in her husband's eyes, Mary smiled, as she sat on the bench beside him. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, I like it here – I'm not overly fond of Downton itself," Richard said truthfully, "but these fields here, the way the moonlight skims on the water, it's lovely."

"How would you know what it's like in the moonlight?" She grinned, mocking his choice of words.

"Night before our wedding, I went for a walk to gather my thoughts and I somehow made my way here. - I finally had a flicker, a wisp, of why you Crawleys are all so in love with this place." He admitted.

And that admittance meant more to Mary than she thought it would. That he could find something to love about her home certainly warmed her and helped to ease her guilt for not coming to London when he'd asked it of her.

"Thank you." She said suddenly, covering his hand. "For giving Papa the money that he needed. That you would do that for him, for the family-"

"Oh stop, I did it for me, Mary." He waved her off and Mary frowned. "You said that these were the acres he was to sell, yes? With my finale being set at Downton, I'd have been buggered if I'd let some mill owner buy up the one prospect in this God forsaken place that I actually like." He shrugged, dismissively. "Expensive, I know, but at this point..."

She narrowed her eyes at him, not believing him for a second, before turning to look back at the lake. "...If you say so."

"I do say so."

His stubborn muttering to have the last word caused Mary to roll her eyes, but there was no irritation to his tone. Something had shifted. These last few days, he'd changed and she didn't know what to put it down to. Had he finally come to terms with his situation, of what was to come?

Letting her eyes wander over his face, Richard seemed less haggard and tired than he had in weeks. He still looked sickly, naturally, but it was as if all the lines of stress, the dark circles of worry and that obstinate frown had all been wiped clean from his face. "You seem so...peaceful, content even." She ventured.

Richard paused, but couldn't find a better way to describe his feelings. Smiling at her, he could only shrug and agree. "That's because I am."

"Well, I'm glad. What brought it about?"

He glanced up at the darkening sky, and tried to put it to words. "...I was scared of the unknown, I felt like I was drifting. I don't anymore." He squeezed her hand which lay over his. "Everyone must die their own deaths."

She raised an eyebrow; he sounded like he was reciting something...or somebody. "Pithy, but cryptic – don't tell me, you've spoken to Granny." She sighed, not knowing whether to be annoyed or thankful that Granny had taken it upon herself to get involved.

"You love me, the children love me – I don't need anything more than that." He smiled, content like she said he was. "I'm still in control and I'm not going to lose."

Taken aback by his choice of words, Mary shook her head, confused. In control? Not going to lose? She sighed inwardly, but thought back to what he had said. "No...I do, love you that is..." She insisted. She wanted him to know that.

"Hmm, I know you do..." He patted her hand happily, staring off into the distance, "...that Crawley, he's a fine man though,..."

Mary turned to him slowly, keeping her feelings in check and wondering about the hidden meanings behind everything he said. He turned back to her, his eyes caressing her gently and she couldn't think of anything to say. Was he putting to bed any feud he had with Matthew? Had Richard grown to like the man? Did he know that Mary loved Matthew too? Was this some sort of odd blessing on whatever Mary and Matthew might mean to each other in the future? She didn't know and, in truth, she didn't care to. Her mind was sick of swimming with what was to come – for one blissful moment, she wanted to share a sunset with her husband.

He was being vague, he knew, but why change a habit of a lifetime. Too much said of what was pointless and not enough said of what really mattered. Richard sensed Mary had nothing further to say on the matter, and was thankful for it. He had so many questions to ask but he, too, kept quiet. They didn't burn in his mind anymore, he was simply interested. Would she have married him if it weren't for her affair with Pamuk? He supposed that it was moot, that he would never know. It would be far too neat and easy to have all questions answered, so he would let it rest.

Richard kissed his wife on the cheek gently, fondly as he used to do when he returned home from the office. "You're a good girl, Mary, I lucked out when I married you."

She sighed dramatically, feeling on better footing. "Well, I didn't want to say anything."

He chuckled gently at that, knowing it would soothe her and looked back at the sunset. "You know, you were right – I am a little chilly. If it wouldn't be too much trouble..."

"Your coat and hat," Mary rolled her eyes and stood up immediately. "As per usual, I was right. I'll walk back, it won't take five minutes. Will you be alright alone?"

"Alone?" He repeated, as if he'd never heard the word before. He blinked up at her, the sun getting in his eyes. "Oh, yes. I've discovered, most marvellously, that my own company isn't too bad at all." He smiled as she walked away. "I do very well alone."

And he did. Alone, after Mary's footsteps crunching on the grass had faded away, Richard couldn't hear a bird in a tree or the sound of a voice. Feeling terribly calm, he couldn't even hear himself breathe, and he liked it. He'd never been one for silence. He was never fond of too much noise, but in his own company, he needed the rustling of a newspaper or a ticking of a clock. His own loud thoughts meant silence was impossible. He over-thought, he over-planned, he over-compensated, but now, there was nothing left to think about.

He'd made a decision. He wasn't drifting anymore. And he could finally embrace the quiet.

Naturally, he'd lied to send Mary back to the house. Richard wasn't cold. He liked the feeling of the winter breeze nipping at his neck, it reminded him of that night before his wedding. It had been cold then too. Taking it by his side, from beneath his blanket, he felt the metal in his hands and gave his ego a break. He had done good. He'd patted the right people on the backs and he'd assured his children of his affection. Richard was assured of his wife's affection for himself as well.

He'd ticked the boxes. He may not have lived a very long life, but he'd lived well and lived far longer than many others less fortunate.

He could only smile as he put the gun to his temple. When you're shitting your pants without meaning to, it's time to say goodbye.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

**So Richard's gone, now for the aftermath. Please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Here's the next installment! Thanks for all your reviews! I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 7:<span>**

31st January 1930

_She couldn't think, she couldn't breathe. All she could do was look at her hands. They were covered in blood. _

"_Old Dr. Clarkson's making his way up to the house now."_

_She briefly registered her father's hushed tones to the side, but they weren't enough to stir her. She couldn't understand it! She'd been talking to him, mere moments before. He'd been cold; she'd gone to get his scarf. _

_She had been on the front step. Carson had the door open for her; he must have seen her coming back up the drive. She'd smiled in greeting, perhaps even gone to speak, before she heard it. _

_A gunshot carried on the wind._

_Her mother was by her side and then she wasn't. "Dr. Clarkson? No, you must have the footmen bring him inside – we cannot leave him there."_

_She didn't need to see her Papa, to know he was scrubbing a hand across his face. "Well, I'm not sure if we should, death in unusual circumstances and all that - anyway, it's up to the doctor to pronounce him dead."_

"_Robert, you can see the lake from the nursery."_

_Another weary sigh. "Carson and I draped a blanket over him."_

_He had a blanket, where he was hiding the gun, she guessed. She'd known, of course. She'd known where the shot had been taken and who had taken it and she had run back to her husband as fast as her legs could carry her. People have more blood than one might think. It didn't even have time to sink into the earth. It shouldn't have surprised her that the blood still stained the grass, but it did. She didn't think there would be so much of it._

"_Mary..." Her mother suddenly returned to her side, dipping her head in an attempt to get her daughter's attention, her voice gentle, "- darling, why don't we wash your hands?" A hand was on her shoulder. "In fact, why don't I ask Anna to draw you a bath? I'm sure Granny won't mind you using her bath salts..."_

_She barely blinked in response. She'd always thought that blood would be an alarming shade of scarlet, that it was runny. Turning over her hands and rubbing her fingertips together, she took a moment to appreciate how sticky blood was. Like a cheap cabernet sauvignon clotting and drying in all the creases of the skin. The air smelt metallic with it and she fought the urge to be sick._

"_Mary,...it's alright."_

_Only then did her eyes flit from her hands to her mother. An expression not having the time to form itself on her face before she covered her mouth and fled the room to finally vomit outside. From the blood or the overwhelming realisation that _nothing_ would ever be right again, Mary wasn't sure._

* * *

><p><em>5<em>_th__ February 1930_

Walking leisurely down the stairs, Mary took the time to adjust her pin curls. Usually, she would have had Anna fix her hair, but she couldn't stand the pitying looks in the mirror's reflection. And Anna was one of the most tactful. Awkwardly for Mary, both Mrs. Hughes and O'Brien had expressed their sympathies and Mrs. Patmore had already put beef on the menu twice in one week; red meat was a must when grieving, apparently. All the maids seemed nicer and all the footmen seemed to avoid her, lest she suddenly crumble and cry.

She'd been inundated with cards and flowers. It was always sad when someone died, but the circumstances of Sir Richard's death were universally considered to be tragic. News of his suicide had spread like wild fire. _What a horrid man for leaving his Mrs. and two little nippers! Poor Lady Mary, she should have taken that Mr. Crawley when she had the chance!_ Not that anyone spoke of any of this to Mary. No, instead she was forced to bear the self-conscious pauses and uncomfortable clearings of the throat. Everyone knew what to say when someone died. _He was a good man, it wasn't his time, he will be sorely missed, I'm sure that he's looking down and smiling_ etc. Mary could see it each time someone had such a phrase on the tip of their tongue. Then they'd pause and remember _how_ said man died and be left speechless. Suicide really was a ghastly business – it made for a very awkward social setting.

Given the choice between silence and inane chatter, however, Mary would choose the former. Whilst the servants didn't know what to say and so stayed relatively quiet on the matter, her family didn't know what to say and therefore said the first thing that popped into their heads. Her mother had taken it upon herself to ensure the health and welfare of her daughter and grandchildren. All meals needed to be eaten, enough sleep needed to be slept and everything else was carried with a smile. Mary sighed, pausing at the dining room door, as she heard her mother's voice. Death seemed to bring out the American in Cora, and now her mother was up for breakfast and insistent that Mary express her feelings.

At least Granny was acting as if nothing happened. In fact, Mary thought as she crossed the threshold, Granny didn't seem the least bit surprised about the whole affair.

Ignoring the brief swell of silence that engulfed the room as she entered, Mary made her way to the table and sat down. Her face flickered with annoyance at seeing both her grandmother and Edith in the room, but she resolutely opted not to speak first, as Carson filled her teacup.

"Mary sweetheart," Cora started, smiling tentatively, "aren't you going to eat something? Mrs. Patmore has put on quite the spread – smoked salmon, your favourite."

Adding milk to her cup and going to stir, Mary frowned. "Why aren't you still in bed?"

Cora sighed inwardly. Her daughter had asked her the same question yesterday, and the same question the day before. The answer was still the same. "...I thought you'd want someone to breakfast with."

"Carson's here – I don't need you to watch my every move." Mary said tersely.

"Well, what with Papa being in York for the post-mortem..." Cora trailed off, as her daughter's face seemed to close off even further. When she tiptoed around the truth, it angered Mary, but clearly the truth was still too much to bear. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"You needn't apologise Mama." Mary interrupted, catching herself. "My husband's dead, I am aware of that fact." She sipped her tea leisurely before raising a lazy eyebrow in Edith's direction. Her sister, neither living at Downton nor due to visit, would have to come up with something more original. "And why are you here?"

Edith glanced nervously at her mother, but refused to cower. "I arrived late last night. Mama's put me in my old room." She shrugged lightly. "I thought I'd help with the children..."

"Sybil telegrams that she's getting the first ferry available." Cora added, hoping such news would help to brighten things. Mary's expression remained unaltered. "The girls will stay with Tom in Ireland for a little longer, but she wanted to be here."

Barely hearing her mother, Mary turned to the one remaining – and unusually quiet - occupant in the room. Her grandmother's cool blue eyes met her own, prepared for any questioning. "And you, Granny? You don't breakfast downstairs either."

"I don't and I haven't." Violet replied bluntly, happy to answer but unhappy at being asked. "Unlike you three ladies of leisure, I actually rise before noon. Why sit alone in the drawing room when I can help myself to a cup of tea here?" Sipping her own tea and ignoring the flare of Mary's nostrils, the Dowager gestured to the letter on the table. "It's for you, my dear."

She reached for the letter, frowning at the familiarity of the handwriting. Grimacing at the idea of reading another letter of condolence, Mary hastily tore it open with her breakfast knife and scanned briefly the first few lines. "...from anyone we know?" Cora asked cautiously, as another frown graced her daughter's features.

The question interrupted Mary's place and she sighed tiredly, before holding out the letter for her mother to read. "It's from Hester," At Edith's blank expression, Mary rolled her eyes. "- Richard's sister. She says that she's in Edinburgh at the moment, but will, of course, be attending the funeral and wants to help, whatever that means." Mary smiled humourlessly, taking her cigarette case from her dress pocket. "Well, naturally. She wants to make sure Richard has left her money."

Edith frowned, both at Mary's words and at the fact that her mother was saying nothing as Mary lit up in the dining room. "I don't remember Richard having a sister..."

"Neither do I," Violet agreed, her eyes narrowing as she searched her memory, " – what does she look like?"

"Like Richard, except she has beady little eyes." Mary said honestly, blowing the smoke to her side. "You spoke with her at the wedding."

"This letter's nice." Cora tried again, but irritated that her daughter wasn't even bothering to pretend to listen. "She writes very sympathetically, you know."

"I did?" Violet frowned.

"Yes, she was in navy from head to toe." Mary said, pulling a face. "It was an awful colour on her."

"Oh my," Violet breathed, her eyes lighting up, "- a bit on the plump side with a mean mouth?" Mary nodded in agreement, drawing again from her cigarette. "It was more of a royal blue, wasn't it?"

"Will she be staying here?" Edith offered, buttering her scone. "It'll be nice for the children to have another aunt in the house, I suppose."

"Royal blue, are you sure?" Mary raised an eyebrow, clearly deciding only to talk to her grandmother. "Whatever it was, it was ghastly."

Cora scowled at Mary's callous tone and put down the letter, aggravated that, despite Mary's complaints of meaningless small talk, her daughter was more than happy to immerse herself in it when the mood suited her.

"She was terribly full of herself, if I remember correctly." Violet continued. "Yes, she didn't care for the flowers. Gerber daisies were her suggestion," The elderly woman clucked her tongue with disapproval, "...so provincial."

"You must invite her to stay here, Mary." Cora said clearly, willing her daughter to pay attention. "She writes that you're the only family she has left and-"

"I hope you took no notice." Mary smiled. "The tulips were lovely."

"Mary."

Mary sighed as her mother's tone suddenly adopted a hardened edge. She looked at Cora expectantly. "What?"

"Hester writes that she shares your grief," Cora tried, hoping the words would mean something, "that she's sorry for..." She glanced down at the letter for the right line, "for the loss of the wonderful man who was my brother and your husband."

Mary waited for more, but none came. Cora began to despair as Mary's expression became one of amusement. "...loss." Mary breathed. Her tone was quite soft, but one could hear the emotion behind it, the fury behind it. "Such a word. Implying that Richard was taken from us. But he wasn't _taken_, was he Mama? He removed himself from the equation." Mary raised an eyebrow, daring her mother to contradict her. She wasn't surprised to receive no response. Using her sister's used eggcup as an impromptu ashtray, Mary sat back in her chair. "So why don't you all stop with the loss and the grief and how it was an unimaginable tragedy...stop with giving Richard the praise that no one in this family would have _ever_ given him in life and just recognise what happened here." She swallowed to calm her nerves and gave her Mama a piercing stare. A stare which was meant to put an end to things:

"...Four days ago, my husband blew his brains out. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

The air was sucked out of the room at her words, Edith's fork clattered against her plate. Cora sighed heavily, refusing to be put off. "Mary, I know that-"

"Suddenly," Mary interrupted, irritated, putting out her cigarette, "I've lost my appetite-"

Her sister barked a laugh. "What appetite? You don't eat anything."

Mary looked hard at her sister, but couldn't be bothered to glare. She stood up to leave. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go read." She said quietly, before quitting the room.

More silence. Cora pinched the bridge of her nose as the sound of Mary's heels faded away. "I don't know what to do, what to say."

Edith shook her head, taken aback by her sister's manner. "Has she been like this since it happened?"

"When Papa found her with Richard, she barely uttered a word but now, it's as if nothing happened. She doesn't cry, she doesn't yell..." Cora sighed tearfully, "she...I don't know what to do."

Violet raised an eyebrow at her daughter-in-law's dejected tone, but decided to indulge her. "She's numb, dear." She offered, half-heartedly tapping Cora's hand. "Give her time, be ready for when the grief comes."

"And when will that be?" Edith asked, doubtfully. "She can't go on like this. Has..." She paused, wondering whether to put the thought to words, "has Matthew seen her?"

"Once, the day after. They spoke, what of I don't know– he didn't stay long. He and Isobel visited yesterday, but Mary was as icy as ever." Cora replied, breezing over her daughter's question and ignoring its implications. "Papa went to York because he can't bear seeing her like this. She won't let anyone in. Peter won't leave her side for a moment-"

"Emily is nasty to everyone and Mary cannot cope with either of them." Violet finished abruptly, having heard Cora complain of the same for the last few days. "Honestly, you mustn't upset yourself. Your daughter and your grandchildren need you to be strong."

Cora went to retort, but thought better of it. She didn't want to be at odds with both her eldest and her mother-in-law. Of course she needed to be strong, but she had no idea what that entailed. Did she need to slap some sense into Mary or be the shoulder to cry on? She wasn't sure; everything seemed to go against nature. She was supposed to lose her own husband before her daughter did. As she often had over the years, the Countess felt powerless. Her daughters were all grown up and she could only stand at the sidelines as their lives unfolded. Mary was distant, Emily was furious and Peter needed a love from his mother and sister that neither were prepared to give at the moment. Her family seemed to be tearing at the seams, and all she could was watch. Violet's words of encouragement were certainly a case of easier said than done.

"I never liked the man, and I'm still cut up over it." Edith replied honestly, looking to her mother for agreement. "How can you remain so calm, Granny?"

Her grandmother pursed her lips and glanced at Carson for a moment. Violet could rely on the old butler, too, to keep his emotions in check. Two Boer Wars, a World War, the Spanish Flu, the war with Ireland...electric lighting; within the walls of Downton, she'd seen too much to be startled by the death of a cancer-ridden, middle-aged businessman. In spite of who he'd married.

Carson's eyebrows twitched in acknowledgement. He loved Mary as she, but one _must_ endeavour to remain unruffled in such circumstances. It was bad enough that people died, there was no need to make matters worse by behaving out-of-character.

Violet added two lumps of sugar to her tea and turned to Edith with a smile. "Well, when you get to be my age, death is part and parcel of life. I never liked funerals in my youth and one never wants to see someone go before their time, but I've found that they provide an opportunity to catch up with old friends."

Cora had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. For her mother-in-law, funerals were an excuse to socialise – how entirely predictable.

"It's more than that." Edith insisted, seeing through her grandmother's dismissive comment. "You don't even seem surprised."

Violet stopped stirring and let her eyes be drawn out of the window. It was still frosty outside, still bitter, but there wasn't any sunlight today. Clouds covered the sky as if knowing the bleak mood in the house. It hadn't looked like this the last time she'd looked outside. The grass had been dewy; every blade twinkling in the afternoon sun. _I don't lose_ – It wasn't in him and she couldn't judge him for it.

She sighed shakily, turning back to the women at the table. "...I'm not."

* * *

><p>31st January 1930<p>

"_He shot himself?"_

_She frowned at her grandmother's tone. She didn't seem taken aback by his death, just by the circumstances._

"_Well, I suppose it's a clean way to go, if done right."_

"_Mama..."_

_She almost smiled at her mother's exasperate tone, rebuking her bluntly-spoken mother-in-law as if it were just another day._

_Her hands had been washed; they still weren't clean though. She sat on the chaise longue by the fire, the flames lighting up her skin but still leaving her cold. She could feel her father's eyes on her, waiting for her to break. She hadn't cried, not yet. She hadn't even cried when she'd seen his body, slumped in his chair. Pale but silent, she'd spoken calmly as she'd tried vainly to wake her husband._

_Now, she was beginning to wish she'd screamed and given the man a piece of her mind. _

"_Well, my dear," She looked up to see her grandmother now standing over her, trying to appear consoling, "you had better tend to your children. It'll make you feel better. You are a mother; you can't be wallowing forever."_

"_Mama!"_

* * *

><p><em>6<em>_th__ February 1930_

"Mama!"

Mary sighed inwardly, tilting her head upwards to see beneath her hat her son, lip wobbling. He was being demanding and petulant and tearful and all the time in an effort to have his mother's attention. Logically, Peter thought it the best option. His father had gone and, from what everyone was saying, it seemed highly unlikely he was coming back. And, not knowing how to be anyone else's child, Peter determined that he had a duty to make sure his other parent didn't decide to disappear as well. But with Emily choosing not to be particularly helpful, he had limited methods with which to keep his Mama by his side. Crying was his best tested.

First of all, he had used it during the night. Having nightmares had been a sort of pastime for the boy. His Mama had always had a very comfortable bed and crying groggily that there was something lurking in the corner of his room at two in the morning had always ensured that he, too, could enjoy sleeping on sheets with the lovely high-thread count. Not that Peter would have masterminded such a plan; he was kind to ever be intentionally deceitful. However, he didn't think it too terrible to exaggerate how much he disliked sleeping alone and, at a time like this, he justified to himself that it was all for a good cause.

In the harsh light of day, when his mother was more alert and had already spent time quarrelling and simultaneously ignoring her family, crying didn't have the intended effect. Grandmama or Aunt Edith would be quick to give in to his demands before his Mama had even seen his tears and, when Mary had seen her son whine or cry, she still seemed to be elsewhere entirely. She appeared different. Everyone did, but particularly Mama. And the longer it went on for, the more uneasy Peter felt. As the days passed, he didn't really need to try to wobble his lip, it came naturally.

"I'm only going for a walk, Rabbit." Mary tried, busily putting on her leather gloves. "It's perfectly alright. Auntie Edith will play with you, won't you?" She turned to her sister, looking hopeful.

"Of course, I will." Edith blinked, snapping her book shut, content to be doing something. She smiled at her nephew, who stood anxiously next to his mother. "What about hide and seek? You and Nicholas can hide and I'll count."

At his aunt's gesture towards his bear, Peter pulled Nicholas closer to his chest and pulled on his mother's skirt, quite desperately. "No, no, no – Mama, don't go!" He shook his head vehemently; nobody should go outside and _nobody_ should walk the grounds. "Don't leave, or..." The little boy bit his lip pensively. He swallowed nervously but forged on. "I'll walk with you. I can walk. Please, Mama, please!"

Her tongue hit the roof of her mouth to stop her heart breaking as her darling boy held his arms out for her to pick him up. Kneeling before him, she tentatively brushed his hair from out of his face and cradled his cheek in her gloved hand. "Ssh, stop, stop crying Rabbit – you're going to make yourself sick if you carry on. We cannot be together _all_ the time." Mary allowed her eyes to be drawn to the small figure behind Peter's shoulder; her daughter sat on a window ledge, her legs drawn up to her chest, her eyes glassed over. Mary cleared her throat. "Emmy, you'll play too - won't you?"

Slowly, Emily turned to face her mother, but she kept quiet. Her face remained expressionless, unsettling Mary greatly. That anger, that resentment that her daughter had stared her down with had long gone. When Richard had been sick, Mary had prayed that Emily would finally feel something other than contempt towards her. Now, she seemed to feel nothing and it left Mary short of breath.

Mary blinked, as a smile suddenly graced Emmy's features. She berated herself for being hopeful, as she realised that the smile wasn't for her.

Her question was answered as her daughter quickly flung from where she sat and rushed past her. "Grandpapa!"

"Hello, my dear girl," Standing up slowly, Mary patted her son's shoulder, listening to the cautiousness in her father's voice. "...Emily, your mother asked you a question."

"I didn't hear anything."

Mary nearly barked a wry laugh at Emily's innocent tone, and her mother's gasp who, as she turned around, she saw to be standing by the door with her father.

"Emily!"

Mary raised an eyebrow, wondering why her mother bothered to feign shock. How could anything be shocking anymore? "Leave it, Mama." She smiled humourlessly at her daughter. "I know that you cannot stand to even look at me, but do you think that you could spend some time with your brother today?"

Emily's brow quirked a little at her Mama's cold tone, but she didn't let it affect her. Lifting her chin proudly, the girl shrugged nonchalantly. "He has you, what more could he need - Why don't you both visit Matthew on your walk?"

_Matthew_. Emmy was always taking aim at the same old target. "Maybe we will." She smiled again, ignoring the glare her father sent. Ignoring the feeling that Emily could see right through her, could see all she was and wanted to pin a scarlet letter to her jacket. Looking at her mother in disdain - though only briefly for it seemed she could barely stomach to look at Mary for very long – Emily then quitted the room.

"Go after her."

She knew that she was being childish; she knew that she had to rise above it. A mother didn't exchange catty remarks with her daughter, but her father's tone aggravated her.

"What for? She berates me enough as it is; I'm certainly not going to seek her out for more." She said dryly, putting a hand to her hair and resenting everything. The way her mother hovered, the way her father tried to appear authoritative, the way her son rocked on the balls of his feet nervously. His father had always done that. "Rabbit, go and ask Carson to help with your coat and gloves, would you?"

"You are coming, aren't you?"

Mary went to snap, but one look at her son's face made her pause. Tapping his nose and trying to smile, she suddenly couldn't think of anything worse than a walk. She needed her bed, and a drink. "...Grandpapa's returned, I'm sure he'll happily take you to see Matthew."

Robert smiled tightly at his grandson in agreement. Peter looked between them for a moment, but seemed satisfied. His eyes couldn't help but light up at the idea of seeing Matthew and, if Mama was staying home, he didn't see the harm.

Nodding, the boy left the room to find Carson; seeing father and daughter staring at each other, Cora left with him. Hopefully, Mary would open up to Robert, but Lady Grantham had her doubts. Mary and Robert were too alike; they were honest and stubborn and yet, when the mood took them, awfully passive aggressive.

Robert looked at his daughter hard. "She's your daughter. _Your_ daughter who has lost her father. She needs your love, Mary. She needs you to love her."

"Funny words from the father who more or less absconded." Mary remarked flippantly, but Robert heard the bitterness there. "How was York? You might as well have stayed until the end of the week, made a holiday out of it."

Robert sighed inwardly; he didn't really have an answer for her. "...These things take time."

Rolling her eyes at his pathetic excuse, she made her way closer to him, ready to leave the room. Her expression bemused as she felt, more than saw, her father straighten up. He seemed nervous? She didn't know. He put his hands behind his back and looked at her expectantly. And then, Mary realised it. Her father hadn't a clue as to what to do. It was probably why he had disappeared. No one teaches you how to raise daughters, isn't that what her Mama had always said? But Robert had always muddled through – taught them how to be deferential without being meek, how to ride side-saddle but to play a mean game of chess. When daughters married, they weren't supposed to be a father's responsibility anymore. But with Mary's husband gone...she needed a man in her life and it was his duty to step in.

She shook her head, exasperated. No morgue would leave an aristocrat waiting for days and it wouldn't have taken a monkey half as long as to deduce how Richard had died. Shooting oneself always has a high success rate, being at point blank range. "Never when you're involved, Papa – a perquisite of being an Earl."

Robert sighed. He wasn't going to let her turn this on him. Mary was letting her daughter slip away from her and he wouldn't stand for it. He let her callousness wash over him; she would be sure to say far worse things down the line. He thought back to that breakfast with Carlisle and smiled inwardly. The man had died thinking, though contently so, that he didn't often know how his wife was feeling, but he had her spot on. _She'll be horrible, I know she will. _With Richard gone, it fell to Robert once more to keep her daughter on the straight and narrow. _I want you to drag her back into the house and to not let her leave, until you are sure she is ready. Until you are sure that she is Mary again._

"When Emily's rude, you discipline her for it and then you reassure your daughter that you are here, right where you should be."

Mary grinned at his words. She couldn't help it – he was speaking to her as if she were sixteen again, as if she were obligated to do as her father had 'requested'. The audacity! Her husband was dead, so he thought he'd merely take over? Not a chance.

Robert frowned as his daughter titled her to the side, a smile still on her face.

"It seems that there is one redeeming feature to widowhood, Papa. I won't ever have to answer to any man again." Her grin faltering as she grew grave. "- Including to you."

* * *

><p>1st February 1930<p>

_Sat in her father's armchair, her shoes tossed off carelessly and her legs curled beneath her, she didn't need to glance up to know Matthew had walked into the room. _

_She couldn't see him out of the corner of her eye, she hadn't committed the sound of his footsteps to memory._

_She just knew when he was in the room, when he was beside her, when he was watching her from afar. She always did._

_And in that moment, it made her sick to her stomach._

" _Mary," She turned tiredly to him, watching him step from the shadows. Dinner must have been and gone. Mama had mentioned that Isobel and Matthew were coming, to be supportive, whatever that meant. Papa had given her the key to his drinks cabinet before he'd fled to York and so she'd declined. An empty tumbler in her hand and an ashtray full of cigarettes on the mantelpiece, she finally forgot about the blood on her hands._

_She simply watched him as he cautiously walked towards her, his hands in his pockets. Her husband's body wasn't even cold and yet she could still ached with familiar desire._

_He perched gently on the coffee table opposite her and she almost flinched at how close he was. He smiled tentatively. "Your mother said that you were in here, I don't wish to intrude..." He swallowed awkwardly, looking uncomfortable. It really wasn't like him to be improper and she could feel him tensing at the idea that Carson might find him sitting on such an antique. She wasn't in the mood to assure him of anything. "I'm so sorry...we're all so terribly sorry, if you need anything, anything at all..."_

_She closed her eyes at his words. How similar they were._

"_...I understand it."_

_He raised his eyebrows, surprised to hear her speak but he latched on to it. "What do you understand?"_

"_The guilt, the self-loathing..." She shook her head, not caring if he thought her to be slurring, "the self-importance, that a girl would die of a broken heart over you," A ghost of a smile came over her as his eyes finally darkened with understanding. "...At last, I understand it. You blamed yourself and quite rightly. We could have done so many things differently. We killed them, didn't we-"_

"_No, no, we did not." He interrupted her firmly. Her question had been rhetorical; they both knew it, but he wouldn't let her do this. "Lavinia was sick; Richard was sick. Nothing we did would have changed anything."_

_Usually such a look from Matthew would have had her believing in his every word, but the alcohol had numbed the senses well. Still, as his eyes caressed her face, she could feel her resolve breaking and sought a distraction. She reached down for the decanter of cognac on the floor beside her and refilled her glass._

"_Lavinia's case is harder to prove, I'll give you that." She said, focusing on pouring. "But by the lake, my husband said to me that you were a..." The crystal clinked uneasily, as she stumbled over feelings and memories, "a fine man – and then he put a bullet in his head."_

_He wasn't shocked by her frankness and she silently thanked for it. He watched her sip her drink before answering. "...He had cancer and he knew what a horrible end that would be." The shrug was implied. He wasn't excusing Richard's actions, just explaining them. Her husband hadn't killed himself because she was in love with another man. She knew that, she did. But she needed someone to blame and Richard wasn't here. _

"_Yes." She agreed quietly, her thumb rubbing the rim of the glass. "I still could have loved him more though. Loved him better. Merely assured him that he was the one." She cursed herself as her voice began to sound hoarse and even Matthew looked down guiltily. "I couldn't even do that."_

_This time, Matthew did shrug. Lavinia and Richard _had_ deserved better. They'd both fallen in love with people who had already given their hearts away and persevered in spite of it. Lavinia had had her suspicions and Richard had known before Mary walked down the aisle. Regretful didn't begin to cover how the two survivors felt looking back at it all. _

_He couldn't contradict her and so changed the subject. He gestured towards her tumbler. "...How much of that have you had?"_

_She opened her mouth to retort, to declare that she had every right to drown her sorrows, but she wondered if she had a right to anything anymore. Glaring at Matthew, not being able to remember a time when she wasn't in love with him – she'd never felt with more conviction that they both had blood on their hands._

_And so she cursed him for ever walking into the room, because she had just managed to put that blood to the back of her mind. Forcing her eyes to look away, she threw back her drink, grimacing as it hit the back of her throat and put the tumbler on the table next to him. "Not nearly enough."_

* * *

><p><em>6<em>_th__ February 1930_

"The duck is really exquisite Cora, you will let Mrs. Patmore know."

"Yes, yes, it's one of Robert's favourites, isn't it darling?"

Her eyes nearly fluttered closed with the dullness of the conversation. Somehow Isobel and her mother had managed the whole evening, by blurting out every mundane thought that entered their heads. Ever the hostess, Cora despaired at such silence at the dining table and Isobel was a rambler when socially uncomfortable. Matthew, meanwhile, was too preoccupied keeping count of how many times Mary had asked Carson for a refill. The children were being peculiarly quiet. Peter was too proud to admit that he was sleepy, having spent an afternoon at Crawley House and Emily, like her mother, didn't feel inclined to speak. Edith wanted to speak, but wasn't sure what quite to say and Violet was more than content to watch the evening unfold. Cousin Isobel and her daughter-in-law were digging themselves into various holes which had them glancing nervously at Mary; Mary could only roll her eyes in response.

"What?" Robert nearly choked on his food. He tried to spare himself from talking by asking for double helpings of everything. "Oh yes, quite right."

Isobel nodded. "The wine goes very well with it-"

"I'm taking the first train to London tomorrow."

The room went quiet as Mary finally spoke. Even Carson paused for a moment before pouring more red wine into her glass.

Cora blinked, surprised. "Whatever for?"

Peter sat up straighter in his chair, smiling. "I'll come with you, Mama."

"No, no you will not." Mary said, gently but quite firm. "You will stay here with your sister."

"Mary, why are you going to London?" Her mother tried again.

"Well, with you all seeing to the funeral, I thought I'd be useful and search for the will." She said casually, drinking from her glass. "After all, that's what your Aunt Hester will be waiting for," She winked at her son, before rising a wry eyebrow, "- on baited breath, no doubt. That is if he _has_ a will. Though he seems to have planned everything else, so I live in hope."

No one knew what to say to that. Mary's lips only twitched with amusement at Edith having the good grace to look scandalised by her sister's joke of poor taste. Cora looked to her husband to impart his thoughts on the matter, but Robert chose to stay out of it. His daughter was adamant that he leave her be and so he would have to pick his battles wisely.

"There's no need. I have it."

This time, everyone turned to Matthew; Violet smirked, it seemed the evening had just begun. Now, it was Mary's turn to be left speechless.

"...You have the will?" She blurted. "Richard asked _you_ to write the will?"

Matthew looked at Mary from across the table, calmly. "Yes, he did."

"My, he certainly liked surprises, didn't he..."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mary continued, ignoring her grandmother's dry mutterings. "Didn't it seem odd that he would ask? The timing of it?"

"No, Mary," Again, he stayed calm, seeing her becoming irate. "He was dying. I was surprised at his choice of lawyer, but he wanted to put his affairs in order."

Frowning at the turn of conversation, Emily had had enough. She didn't like hearing the family talk about father. "May I be excused from the table, Grandpapa?"

Her grandfather looked at the girl sat beside him and sighed. It needed nipping in the bud and soon. "You must ask your mother."

Hearing her father's quiet words, Mary glared a last time at Matthew – _we'll speak of this later_ - and turned to her daughter. She took a breath; her temper was starting to get the better of her. Putting her hands into her lap and clenching them into fists, she willed herself to remain calm. A difficult task when she could hear Matthew's thoughts coming back at her. _You should have stopped three glasses ago_.

"Go ahead. Ask."

In effort to stay composed, however, Mary's voice was as cold as ice, daring Emily to disobey. Not the way a mother should speak to her nine year old daughter. Seeing her daughter's heavy breathing, Mary immediately regretted it. But something stopped her from taking it back. It was almost as if she wanted an argument. Emily was the only one who wasn't afraid to tell her mother exactly what she thought of her; everyone else was tiptoeing. And Mary was going to take whatever she could. She wanted to yell and shout at something or someone – part of her didn't care if her young daughter was all that was on offer.

Isobel blinked, Cora sighed and looked up at the ceiling, even Violet's hairline shot up in surprise. Nobody understood, particularly her mother. They all thought that it wasn't right. She was the widow – she was supposed to cry her heart out and then move on as best as she could. But Mary was finding it very hard to care what anybody thought. Evidently, she was a lost cause; she couldn't even mourn correctly.

Emily's nostrils flared angrily. In her opinion, Mama was a selfish witch. She didn't seem to care at all that Father had died. For the first couple of days, she'd flitted between the library and her room, saying nothing, doing nothing. They'd had to hear it from Grandmama that he was gone. And now, now her Mama went on as if nothing had ever happened. As if their father had never existed at all. She made jokes and put on lipstick and scolded Peter...and never said a word about what everyone was thinking about.

And it was all her fault anyway. They'd been happy enough in New York and then they'd come back to Downton and it had all gone wrong. This Matthew Crawley, who'd been seldom mentioned in past years, was everywhere and always hovering around Mama. Even Peter had made the horrible mistake of idolising him. Father had stayed away in London and when he had returned, he looked different, pale and sickly. Never again would he look like the father she remembered. And why should he have? Downton wasn't his home, it was Mama's. And Emily hated it for taking her father away. She hated the way a draft swept along the corridor and into the nursery, she hated the way her voice echoed in the hall, she hated that she had to walk such a distance just to have a glass of milk, she hated the way her boots crunched on the gravely paths. By proxy, she was resentful towards everyone in it. Mama, Grandpapa, Grandmama, Granny Violet, even Carson– she blamed them all.

But Emily Carlisle was an intelligent girl; she knew it wasn't right to feel that way. That her father had been sick and it was nobody's fault. Though, resentment doesn't simply evaporate into thin air. It had to go somewhere and her Mama made it all too easy by being terribly rotten. She'd been short-tempered enough when Father had been sick, but in the aftermath of his death...Emily wondered if she knew her mother at all.

"You're wicked." Emmy said, brushing furiously away the tears on her cheeks. "I hate you, Mama."

Cora covered her mouth, alarmed by her granddaughter's words; Robert shook his head disapprovingly. But Mary merely nodded,"...I see. Is that all or do you have something else to add?" She asked briskly, picking up her knife and fork once more.

At her mother's dismissal, Emily grew more annoyed. "Father was good and well, he was feeling better and then he dies and I knew you weren't looking after him properly! You wanted him gone so then Matthew could become our father and I won't have it, Mama, I won't."

Isobel's eyes widened at her son being dragged into it all, but Matthew's eyes were on Mary. Sensing everything getting out of hand, Edith at last jumped in. "Emily, sweetheart, your mother loved your father very much-"

"Then why doesn't she care? Why doesn't she cry for him? Everyone else is sad but you!" She shouted accusingly across the table. "Even Margo cried about it and she doesn't give a fig about anyone! But you don't care! You didn't love him and you don't love us, and it's not fair! It's not fair because Father loved Peter and I very much and now he's gone!" She paused to take a breath, but pressed on with what had been weighing on her mind. The air left the room; somehow everyone knew her next words before she said them. "It should've been you, Mama, not him! I wish he were alive and _you_ were dead!"

Mary's eyes rested on the plate, but they swam, fuzzy from the wine. It hurt, of course it did. It isn't a good day when one's child wishes one dead. But she was also, in a strange way, relieved. Relieved that her daughter had come to terms with her feelings, relieved that she'd expressed them and relieved at the general consensus that yes, it wasn't bloody fair. None of it was.

"Are you quite finished?"

Emily blinked, expecting her mother to yell. "...yes."

"Good. You are excused from the table." She waited a moment before looking back up. Her daughter sat there, seemingly dumbstruck. There's always a first time, Mary thought wryly. "Just go, Emily, and take your brother with you."

Peter frowned. "That's alright, I'll stay with you, Mama and we'll-"

"No, there is no 'we', Peter." Mary said, firmly and no longer gentle. "I am the mother and you are the child. You do as I say. Go with Emily and Mamie shall read you a story and put you to bed." Cora looked at her daughter incredulously. Mary sighed. "Well, she has no one else to attend to, after all, and I keep forgetting to dismiss her."

She was surprised, perhaps even slightly dismayed, at how quickly the fight went out of the children. Emily had said more than she'd planned to and was incredibly flustered; Peter was left shell-shocked by how curt his Mama had been. Wiping her mouth with the napkin, Emily got down from the table, took her brother by the hand and left the room.

Mary went back to looking back at her plate.

"She didn't mean it." Isobel offered. "She's upset, that's all-"

"What in God's name was that?" Mary looked up startled as Matthew slammed his hand on the table. His mother put a hand on his arm to calm him, but he only stared, disbelievingly, at Mary. "Your daughter just told you that she wished you _dead_ and that she _hated_ you and yet you didn't even flinch. Mary, what has got into you?"

Shaking herself from her surprise, Mary immediately went on the defensive. "What concern is it of yours?"

He lowered his tone and Mary tried to dismiss the disappointment in his eyes. "This isn't you."

"Oh yes," She barked a laugh, "I forget myself - you know everything there is to know about me, don't you?"

Matthew sighed. "No, actually, despite our drawn-out..." An acquaintance, a friendship – it was so much more than that, "despite our ever-crossing paths, I find that you're still quite the enigma. I only know one thing without question." His eyes finally softened. "That you're a lioness when it comes to your children. I've never seen a mother love harder or better."

"They'll understand when they're older." She raised an eyebrow. "I thought I'd leave it a while before letting them know that their beloved father chose to decorate the lawn with his blood and brains."

Cora clucked her tongue. "Really, Mary, must you speak so..."

"Candidly? Truthfully? It's what happened, isn't it?" Mary demanded, tired of everyone pretending that Richard had simply passed away in his sleep. "Emily is safe in the ignorance that her father was a great man and I'm left thinking him a coward."

"He wasn't a coward."

"No," Mary drawled sarcastically, turning to her grandmother who now wanted a share in the conversation, "he merely liked putting together surprises. Hated surprises himself, of course, but he delighted in making decisions without discussion. We're moving to New York, or I'm in financial trouble, or I've got cancer - he didn't even have the decency to tell me of his plans."

Violet looked hard at her granddaughter. "You would've stopped him." It wasn't an accusation; it was the truth.

"Yes, I would have." Mary said, still defensive. "I would have stopped him from being so selfish and leaving us here, leaving me here," She straightened the napkin on her lap, her voice growing quieter, "alone."

"He didn't do it to hurt you, Mary." Violet said honestly. "It wasn't an act of cowardice; it was an act of compassion, for himself. He wanted to end his own suffering – you can sympathise with that."

Mary paused, then turned to her grandmother fully, her eyes narrowing. Yet again, she had the sinking feeling that her Granny knew far more than she was letting on. If anyone should think it an act of cowardice, it should be Granny. The Dowager wasn't a heartless woman by any means, but compassion and sympathy weren't always at hand. Loyalty and strength of character mattered to Violet Crawley and Mary couldn't believe her grandmother would be able to stomach a man who had left his family willingly, dying or not. Granny disliking Richard would have had nothing to do with it. It was simply a question of principles. We all had our trials and tribulations; cancer was Richard's. Could her grandmother respect someone who gave up? Who slunk quietly away without a word to another soul?

But, truly looking at the older woman, Mary started to have her doubts and swallowed. Granny had always looked old, of course, but in her time away, she had returned to Downton to find her _elderly_. Her cane was no longer something with which to gesticulate and wave accusingly in someone's general direction, it was now needed. It was now leant on. Her face seemed as lined as it ever had, but now it had that pale hue, bordering translucent, the kind that the skin takes on in its twilight years. Her eyes were as sharp as ever, but that spark – somehow, it didn't seem to ignite as it once did.

For Mary, Granny had always been old, but now her body seemed to have an awareness of it, lamenting the passing of the years.

Empathising, her grandmother wouldn't have been able to stop herself from voicing her thoughts.

Mary's eyes suddenly flickered with understanding. Richard may have slunk off, but she could imagine well which soul he'd been speaking to before he'd made that decision.

"...You put him up to it."

Her tone wasn't accusatory, but neither was it accepting. Violet's face wrinkled for a moment in displeasure at Mary pinning such a thought to her.

"Excuse me?"

Her grandmother's curt tone didn't put Mary off. If anything, it put fuel on the fire, on the burning desire to know the truth. She didn't care who was sat at that table, or who was listening; she needed Granny to fess up to her part in all of this. "_You_ put him up to it. I know you did. What did you say to him?"

Robert bristled. He knew his daughter was grieving, but there were limits to what was acceptable and his patience. A lack of respect was something he couldn't just watch. "Don't speak to your grandmother like that, Mary."

But Mary wasn't listening, she was wracking her brain, trying to grasp on to anything which would explain why her Granny had supported Richard's actions. And she _knew_ that she'd supported him. "Suicide is not something you condone..." Mary shook her head vehemently, having a memory at hand, "I remember when, when Sybil's godfather, Sir Callum, hung himself from his bedroom window...Edith and I heard you, you were...scathing about the man!"

Her grandmother was unwilling to concede. "When one gets to my age-"

"Your age, your age!" Mary snapped, losing her patience. "As if always being the oldest person in the room awards you the trump card! What is it you said? It was one of the last things he said to me and I knew that they were your words and not his." She started to ramble, her eyes darting on the ceiling. "Something about, everything must die or...God, everyone has to die their own way or something like that. You told him to do it, more or less."

Robert sighed. "Mary, that's enough."

"Everyone must die their own deaths," Violet clarified, unrepentant, "and I did no such thing. It was his gun, his decision."

"But it was looking better!" Mary argued, desperately. "The anger, the petulance – it had all fell away and he was content-"

"Because he had made his choice, Mary." Violet interrupted, cutting straight to the point and almost exasperated that her granddaughter would be so naive. "Richard was finally content because he had made _his_ choice. He didn't do it to hurt you or the children – he was dying regardless, he assumed that you'd make peace with his methods. It wasn't in him to die slowly, with you by his side and holding his hand-"

"He was _my_ _husband," _Mary said, incredulous that Granny would make such presumptions as to how Richard felt, " – how would you know what he wanted?"

"Don't disagree for the sake of it, child." Violet sighed, irritated by Mary's determination to argue over dinner. "He was a proud man who liked things to go his way, a man who liked to win. He couldn't lose as well as die – it added insult to injury. So he took himself out of the game."

_Game_. Mary took in a breath to steady herself, to stop herself from screaming. Her hand closed around her fork, her thumb pressed hard against the tines. This wasn't some game. This was her life and somehow it'd all gone to hell. "...and your empathy, your little analogy..." Mary shrugged tensely, bitterness dripping from her words, "- all of this is supposed to be comforting, is it?"

"Rosamund, please..." Violet sighed again, exasperated, before realising her slip of the tongue. Her eyebrows rose a little in surprise; Robert and Isobel both eyed her with concern.

Cora took the silence as an opportunity to build bridges. "Mary, Granny is only trying to say that-"

"I don't care." Mary didn't snap – her grandmother's mistake had let the wind out of her sails and now she felt more tired than anything. Or so she told herself; she still held on to the fork tightly. "It _does_ matter how he died. I wasn't ready, the children weren't ready. I had come to terms with the notion that he was sick and not getting better," She shifted, looking down, uncomfortable with her confession, "but I wasn't ready for him to die."

Her mother nodded only slightly, resting her hand over Mary's. "Darling, stop it, you're going to hurt yourself..." Cora whispered gently. And, as if only suddenly realising what she was doing, Mary released the fork, her thumb turning pink with relief.

"I should be glad that he had a quick exit, hmm?" Mary asked, her shoulders sagging. "What about his family? One day, I'll have to tell Emmy and Rabbit the truth. His death is plastered across every newspaper; they'll have to live with the stigma of being the children of a man who committed suicide for the rest of their lives. I'll always be the widow of a man who shot himself," She took a sip of wine and grimaced, "...a man who gave up the fight."

"The fight was over."

Mary bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head imperceptibly. She'd wondered how long it would take before Matthew felt he needed to add his opinion to the mix. Her eyes glanced at him for only a second; she couldn't take any more than that. The guilt she felt every time she looked at him was too much for her to contend with on top of every other emotion. But it seemed that he was unrelenting, preaching once more, speaking as if his word were law. He'd written the will and apparently was also an expert in Richard's prognosis – he was so...why did he have to insert himself into everything? She'd kept her distance after Lavinia died. Left him to his misery, the disgust he had for himself and for her. Matthew could be so much like his mother; he had to interfere. Even when he wasn't wanted.

"Miracles happen every day." Mary dared him to refuse it, finally looking at him. "No one thought you would ever walk again and yet, here you are."

Matthew nearly rolled his eyes at the slow drawl to her last words, her message received loud and clear. She had no desire to hear what he had to say. But he couldn't stop himself. Matthew had never liked Richard - in fact, he'd come very close to hating him – but it had all become petty when Mary had returned to Downton, holding her children's hands in her own. He'd shaken Richard's hand, he'd agreed that there were no hard feelings and today, there really weren't. As he'd told Robert during the war, if soldiers were to die in dirt and in France, they wished for nothing more than a clean death, a clean bullet. He was among one of those men. He couldn't blame Richard for wishing for the same. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. With no one else to aid him, no man across No Man's Land to take aim, he had to fire the clean bullet himself. He'd exhausted all other options; it wasn't defeatist, it was realistic. And Richard was nothing if not realistic.

"He had nothing more to give, Mary." Matthew tried again, leaning forward, willing her to understand that Richard's suicide was merely the last act of a tired man.

But Matthew and everyone else at that table failed to appreciate that one could not, _would not_, understand the death of a husband a mere week after the fact – not even Mary could do that.

"...no," Mary said quietly, finishing her glass of wine and getting up from her seat, somehow suddenly able to look Matthew in the eye, "one has something to give if there's an incentive great enough. We simply weren't worth fighting for."

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><p>She'd abandoned dinner three hours ago and was currently lying on her bed, eyes trained on the ceiling, counting the panels, the roses curling around the light fixtures...riveting. She was bored, but finally she was alone with her thoughts. She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or not that her family had given up on her.<p>

Mary sighed heavily and turned to gaze out of her window. She sighed again; Anna had already drawn the curtains.

Holding her left hand up, she stared at her wedding rings. White gold, diamond-encrusted, a solitaire in the middle – the best that money could buy! That was Richard to a tee, nothing was too good for his wife or his family. Though, as he'd later confessed, he had sent his secretary to Cartier to pick something out.

That also was Richard to a tee: honest. He was not always forthcoming, but he never lied. He made a point of it, no matter how painful the truth might be.

Yet, here she lay, dazed, still reeling from his latest lie. His last lie.

Her family weren't reeling, or didn't appear to be. Richard was dead, he was going to die anyway, let's get on with it. _Be strong for the children, Mary. Forgive yourself, Mary. It's perfectly acceptable to cry, Mary._ Rolling her eyes, she got up and went to sit before her vanity mirror. She didn't want to cry and she didn't want to be strong. She simply wanted to be.

She was a widow and that took time to process, didn't it? Tilting her head at her reflection, Mary wondered what would become of her. She was still attractive, of course, but her youthful bloom had gone. Would she remarry, find the children another father? Or would she stay faithful to Richard's memory?

_Richard's memory..._ she snorted. He'd certainly gone and ruined that. Taking her perfume, she dabbed some on her wrists and rubbed them together. Once more, he'd kept her in the dark. Taken their lives down a path she didn't want to go. Her eyes narrowed; why couldn't he have waited a little longer? Why couldn't he have overdosed or shut himself in the garage with the car running like a normal person? No, he had to do something grandiose, didn't he? She was fairly surprised that he pulled it off; Richard never hit a thing on the New Year's shoot.

Her wrists slowed down and Mary frowned, glancing at her perfume bottle. Evening in Paris by Bourjois. The best of the best. She'd been wearing it for the past couple of years; Richard liked the smell. _Had_ liked the smell. Or so he said, she rather thought that he wanted her wearing the most fashionable perfume there was. An ironic smile tugged at Mary's mouth.

She'd always hated this perfume.

It had an overtone of violet which she didn't care for. She raised an eyebrow; she'd certainly had too much Violet this evening. But she'd worn it, religiously. Shalimar had always been more her cup of tea, but she'd worn Soir de Paris – for her husband.

Quite overwhelmed, Mary grabbed the bottle and threw it across the room, satisfied as she heard the glass smash against the wall. "...son of a bitch..." Her eyes flicking carelessly across her dresser, she, just as impulsively, pushed everything on to the floor. More glass broke, crystal cracked, her jewellery box sprung open scattering her valuables across her floor. It was then over as soon as it had begun and Mary was left trying to catch her breath. She wasn't even sorry for it and, if Richard had been there, she'd have done it again. She'd have thrown the perfume at his head.

"Son of a bitch!"

That's when it finally hit her. She wasn't numb in the slightest; she was angry to the point of soul-consuming. At herself, at her family, but most of all, at Richard. For everything.

And she'd never be able to tell him. She'd never be able to yell at him and berate him again. He'd never shout back. He'd never buy her flowers, kiss her on the cheek and apologise, when he'd realised he was wrong – or that his wife was never going to apologise and the cold shoulder had finally broken him down.

In that moment, she truly thought that her husband was a son of a bitch and he would never know it.

And before she had time to register how much that pained her, she was sobbing to the point where it wracked her entire body. Stumbling to the foot of her bed, she leant on a bedpost before slumping to the ground. The tears unforgiving, she gasped to try to catch her breath. She couldn't.

When she next looked up, her door was open. Her eyes clouded, she still knew who it was. Still in her hat and coat:

"...Mary..."

Her eyes soft, her face full of understanding, Sybil immediately rushed forward and sat down on the ground, embracing her sister. Grasping blindly out for her sister's arms and holding on firm, Mary's sobs started anew.

**TBC...**

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><p><strong>Sybil's back! What do you think? Please review!<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews guys, this fic has been a really hard one to write, but I am so glad that you are enjoying it. Again, keep the reviews coming, they're incredibly helpful in knowing what bits of my writing style/characterisation you like and then I can work on it. Another rather long chapter, hope you enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 8:<strong>

_6__th__ February, 1930. _

She wasn't sure how long she sat there on the floor. Her whole body shook as grief took over. Her nose was running, tears flowed freely, Sybil's coat was damp. Feelings that he didn't even know she had overwhelmed her and left her clinging on to her sister for dear life. But, after a while, the sobbing grew quieter, her breaths calmer, her heartbeat slower, until eventually Mary felt well enough to pull her head back from her sister's shoulder. She rubbed her tired eyes, almost raw, and, sighing deeply, leant against the bed frame.

Taking the hint, Sybil unwound her arm from her sister, and leant back with her.

Mary wiped underneath her eyes, sure that her makeup was ruined. Her breath hitched, but she fought back the tears. "He's left me."

"He died," Sybil amended softly, taking off her gloves, "- he was always going to die."

"Everyone is waiting for me to fall apart," Mary sniffed; feeling exposed, she folded her arms across her chest, "but I can't. I won't." Her eyes drifted to her sister, daring Sybil to retort. But Sybil only raised a gentle eyebrow. Mary scowled, her voice finding strength again. "God, couldn't he have gone to the effort of wheeling himself into the lake? - He wasn't that far away! He _had_ to use his gun." She ground her teeth, suddenly irritated by him. "Always fancied himself as a gunslinger, as someone heroic."

She wanted to scowl again, but she knew that Sybil could see through it. Sybil always could.

Mary's nostrils flared tearfully, but she bit her cheek to keep it together. She finally caught her sister's gaze. "...I can't get the blood off my hands, part of me doesn't even want to..." She shrugged unhappily, "...Mama's concerned because I won't hold the children, not that Emily wants me anywhere near her. I can't hold them until I get the blood off."

Sybil frowned, but endeavoured to keep the worry from her face. She brushed a lock of hair from her sister's face. "The blood has already been washed off, Mary."

"I know it has, I do," Mary said impatiently, glaring at Sybil for treading so carefully, for looking at her as if she might cry – or have some sort of psychotic episode, " but – God damn him! He didn't have to leave things like this. I won't cry over him." Again, Sybil didn't contradict her. "He doesn't deserve it." And again, Sybil said nothing. She just sat there, listening. Mary rolled her eyes at her sister's silence. "You know even Edith is speaking well of him now." She offered, spitefully, trying to provoke a reaction.

Finally, Sybil shrugged, amused by the petulance in Mary's voice. "Never speak ill of the dead, I suppose."

"That's not for me, I'm afraid." Mary smiled humourlessly, wiping invisible dirt from her evening dress. "If he was still here, I'd probably kill him myself." She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why couldn't he just do what was expected and die quietly, months from now. He's failed the final test, you know – the aristocracy don't shoot themselves. "They shoot game, they sleep with each others' wives, as well as their maids," She pulled a face, " they like to hang dead things off the walls, but only businessmen put guns to their heads..."

Sybil tutted; to bring up class at a time like this. But that had always been a sore point with Richard and right now, more than ever, Mary wanted to hit a nerve. Even if her husband wasn't here to feel it.

Sybil had seen enough death to know that there were a million ways to go that were ghastly. And she knew that her sister was angry at so many things. But it was difficult. Seeing one's husband's body slumped, blood everywhere, pieces of his skull blasted apart. You just don't get over a thing like that.

No advice, no sympathy would be helpful though. So, Sybil settled on what she knew of Richard's character. He liked attention; he made dramatic entrances, it was only natural that he wanted a dramatic exit.

"He wanted to go out with a bang."

Mary blinked, as did Sybil. It was supposed to be a joke, but only hearing it out loud did Sybil realise how in poor taste it was. Her sister's husband had shot himself days ago and here she was quipping about it.

She needn't have worried. Before she had even a chance to apologise, the sound of Mary's laughter filled the room. Her crow's feet crinkled as she threw her head back and truly laughed. Not a polite chuckle or a giggle, but a heart-lightening, belly-strong laugh. Her arms uncrossed and came to rest in her lap. Sybil couldn't help but grin too. Their legs both stretched out before them, Mary nudged her sister a little, grateful.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Sybil smiled, grasping one of her sister's hands and feeling more confident. "Forget the sombre faces downstairs, our family is simply doing the done thing. Looking crestfallen, the words of regret and sympathy – it's the norm," She shrugged, squeezing Mary's hand to press her point home, "you can do and feel _whatever_ you want." Mary nodded a little, but – her laughter now gone - looked less convinced. Withdrawing her hand, she reached over for her cigarette case. One of the many items she had pushed carelessly from her vanity to the floor. "Call him a son of a bitch, scream at his coffin," Sybil sighed, distracted as her sister put a cigarette to her mouth, "spit on his headstone," and lit it, "and curse the day he was ever born," and started to smoke it, "if that is what it takes – Mary!" She reached out and plucked the cigarette from her sister's lips, putting it out against the bed frame.

Mary frowned, indignant. "I was smoking that!"

"I know. They're not good for you." Sybil rebuked, before turning dry. "Trust me; I'm a doctor."

Mary's eyes glazed over a moment. Knowing Sybil, she was a wonderful doctor. So caring and patient, so determined to help people. Tenacious too, a true Crawley. She'd have helped. She would have done her hardest to make Richard better. She licked her lips, not liking where her thoughts were taking her. "Everyone does it."

"Gosh, are you accusing me of bucking the trend?" Sybil smiled wryly, sensing her sister becoming morose. "Like I'd ever do a thing like that."

But Mary merely went still. The urge to cry had left her, but that familiar feeling of hopelessness was starting to creep in again. She opened her cigarette case and shut it again. Richard had never minded it; he'd thought it attractive. After a dinner or a party, they'd shared a glass of wine or she'd drink from his tumbler, he would have his cigar and she a cigarette. She'd kick off her shoes, toy with her necklace; he'd rub her feet absentmindedly. Mary bit her lip hard as her brow creased, distressed. She was alone. She was alone and it hurt and it was all because he had left her.

"I can't. My family..." She sighed, her voice tearful. "It's broken. He broke it."

Sybil frowned at her sister's tone: defeatist, resigned. But that was Mary all over. She didn't expect the worst, but she never got her hopes up. She'd eventually buck up and carry on – never kept down for long – but Sybil wanted more than that. Mary had had her heart damaged many times throughout the years; she couldn't keep simply applying bandages, she needed to let it truly heal. Healing is so much easier when you're not alone. Sighing, Sybil pulled her coat off, frustrated, her hat long forgotten. Mary turned to her sister uneasily as Sybil's face hardened, growing serious.

"Your family are along the corridor in the nursery," Mary's eyes flickered guiltily; Sybil raised a sardonic eyebrow, "they are downstairs most certainly discussing you at this very moment and," Sybil finished softly, "I am sitting beside you, wanting to help a sister to grieve-"

"To grieve, Sybil!" Mary snapped, abruptly standing. She shook her head, determined. "No! Richard broke it! I do not forgive him!"

"Fine!" Sybil snapped back, staring up her sister. "Don't grieve, don't forgive. You prefer anger, do you?"

Mary blew a breath, flushed and stubbornly put her hands on her hips. She raised her head, daringly. "Yes, I do."

"The only person you want to feel the full brunt of your anger – who you want to fight with - isn't _here_, Mary."

Mary shook her head, closing her eyes, as if that could block out her sister's words. "Sybil-"

Sybil stood up then, before Mary. Mary almost shuddered as her sister took both her hands. A tear escaped as Sybil reached up and kissed her cheek. She didn't open her eyes.

"He's not coming back. I know that you think that it's his fault and so you are cross, but..." She whispered, waiting until Mary's eyes eventually opened. "You are allowed to indulge in a little sadness, too."

Mary wept then. Her cheeks dampened and she made no effort to wipe them as she clutched on to Sybil's hands tightly. She almost groaned with unhappiness. "Say it again."

"Richard isn't coming back."

And then the flood gates opened. And once again, Sybil took her sister into her arms, stroked her cheek and whispered soothing words into her hair. He was gone. She'd understood that as soon as she'd thrown her things across the room, but only now did she recognise how that made her feel.

She missed him. Her whole body hurt for missing him so much. It hurt to even breathe and it left Mary wracking her brain as to how this man – who'd gone from idle amusement to someone she feared to her husband – had managed to worm his way into her heart.

She'd always known that he would go first, being that much older, and she'd thought about it. She just hadn't felt it. Until now. It was a pity that Richard wasn't there – he'd have no doubts that his wife loved him. Still...

"Bastard."

Sybil laughed in her ear and pulled back. She smiled, staring into her sister's dark eyes and she wiped Mary's face clean of tears. Mary smiled back gratefully. She sniffed; she was far from healed, but it was a start.

Sybil raised her eyebrows, suddenly struck by a thought and let go of Mary to reach down into her coat. Mary frowned, as she rummaged around, but could only blink with surprise as her sister stood up again, triumphant, holding treasure in her hand. A hipflask.

Sybil shrugged, holding it out to Mary. "It's whisky." At Mary's sceptic al look, she rolled her eyes."Don't look like that, it's Bushmills- only the best for my sister."

Mary pouted thoughtfully for a moment, but took the whiskey. She raised an eyebrow as she unscrewed its top. "Since when did you start carrying around a flask?"

Sybil sighed at such a silly question. "I married an Irishman, didn't I?"

* * *

><p>He'd known it was coming. Isobel had been quiet since Mary had abandoned the table at dinner and had continued to give her son the cold shoulder on the drive back to Crawley House. She had something on her mind and it simply wasn't in his mother's nature to leave well enough alone. If she had advice, she had to give it. Impart her wisdom, so to speak. But, after all hell broke loose that evening, Matthew wasn't in the mood for whatever she had to say. His thoughts were still with Mary, hoping that Sybil had managed to get through to her sister where others had failed. Where he had failed.<p>

Handing his coat and hat to Moseley, he could already feel the words forming on his mother's tongue, her mind structuring what exactly she wanted to say. The sighs, the tight thanks she gave to Moseley, the clearing of the throat – by the time, they'd walked into the drawing room, he snapped. Better to get it out of the way and then off to bed.

"What?"

Isobel didn't flinch at her son's tone as she watched him near collapse into the armchair. His irritation, his distraction, only confirmed what she already knew; Matthew had let himself get caught up in all that was happening at the abbey and it wasn't right.

Though she loved the Grantham family dearly, she still saw the line drawn between them and herself and Matthew and accepted it, embraced it even. In matters of the estate, it was good for Matthew, as the heir, to be included, but such delicate family matters had to be treated with more care and discretion. Matthew was not Mary's brother or father – it was not his responsibility to scold her at Robert's dining table. Nor should it be. Matthew had always seen the line, too. Isobel could admit that, over the years, she had eagerly determined herself important to family matters at Downton. She'd overstepped the mark many times; her son could be relied on to reel her in. Pity, Matthew could never see the line when it came to Mary.

She fixed her son with a hard stare as she came round to sit on the settee. "It wasn't your place, Matthew."

"Oh Mother, please..." Matthew sighed, letting his head fall back against the back of the chair, hoping she'd be brief.

"Mary is not your concern."

Matthew blinked at that, and finally gave his mother his eyes, bristling at the harshness in her tone where there was none. He simply didn't like what she had to say. "Mary will always be my concern." He contradicted, his voice brooking no argument.

Isobel raised her eyebrows at the incredulous look he was sending her way. As if she'd said something so heartless. Of course, she and Matthew should be there for Mary should she need anything; she was family. It was the way that her son had gone about it which maddened her. Tossing petty words and sarcastic quips across the table at each other - the time for that had passed. A retort for the pretty, witty Lady Mary Crawley was fine once upon a time, but for the widow with children, of a man who had taken his own life...what did Matthew think this was? Did he think a few harsh words would force Mary to buck up and then they could pick up where they left off? Isobel prayed the thought hadn't entered his head. "Somehow," She ventured cautiously, "I doubt that you would involve yourself so if it had been, say, Edith who had lost their husband."

His mother was right about that; there was no point in denying it. He sighed again, scrubbing a hand over his face. "...I understand what she's going through, what she is feeling..."

Isobel sighed inwardly. He was speaking of Lavinia, of course. His last serious romance, which ended in her death more than ten years prior. That was what he was comparing this to. But it just wasn't the same. Matthew never loved Lavinia; he loved the idea of her. How could he? He hadn't known her, not really. A few weeks on leave here and there, prettily-worded letters back and forth, her photograph to brighten up his trench. When faced with the possibility of death, one makes haste – life suddenly so much more precious than it was before. If there hadn't been a war, he would have never proposed. Isobel knew that and sadly, so did Matthew.

"Forgive me," Isobel said gently, resting her hand on her son's forearm, "but I don't think you do understand. Lavinia was a sweet girl and her death was a tragedy, but-"

"But what?" Matthew snapped, his mother hitting a nerve. "She may have not been my wife, but she was as good as – she died the day we were supposed to marry." He swallowed; and what a day that had been. "I cared for her, I..." He licked his lips, choosing his words carefully, "Lavinia made me happy."

"I'm not trying to tarnish what you had," Isobel insisted, rubbing his arm and shifting closer, trying to press her point, "but you must realise that it is not your place to try to snap Mary out of her grief. Richard Carlisle was her husband and the father of her children. For the last decade, he has been her _world_. Men try to understand it, but they can't. When I lost your father..." She swallowed a lump in a throat as her son shot her a look of empathy. Losing Reginald had been hard on both of them. It was as if a piece of the jigsaw was missing. No more playful bickering at the dining table, no glass of brandy over talk of sport and politics, it hadn't felt right to sit at the head of the table. The house – their lives – became quiet. It was simply Matthew and his mother. Until Downton.

Losing the person one was to marry was undeniably heartbreaking, but losing the person one had shared their life with caused a pain, a loss, that was unimaginable. Everything hadn't been new and exciting and hopeful, but familiar. A familiarity that snuck up on you.

And as a woman, it didn't leave one just bereft, but utterly lost. Taking care of one's husband – well, how else could a wife define herself. Isobel willed her son to understand. "Mary has no profession, no other role than that of a wife and a mother. She's lost herself as much as she's lost Richard. The way he went...well, it only makes it harder."

_You can't possibly comprehend. Don't bother trying. Move on with your own life_. He could read his mother well and supposed she had a point. He'd never had a wife. He didn't know what it was like to shape a life around someone else's. And though Mary had confessed her love for him, Matthew didn't doubt that she had loved Richard, in another way perhaps, too. He didn't bother denying to himself the stab of jealousy he felt at that.

But although he didn't understand how Mary felt about Richard, Matthew understood grief. He knew that it could destroy people from the inside out, eat away at them, and it wasn't in him to watch that happen to Mary.

He pursed his lips and gathered his thoughts. Isobel gently removed her hand and watched her son with worry: "Everyone let me be."

Isobel frowned, his voice quiet. Matthew cleared his throat. "Everyone let me." He repeated. "I'd survived a war, regained my ability to walk, only to lose my fiancée to an illness, a flu, which killed far more people than a war ever could." One side of his mouth twitched with remembrance; she had been such a bright girl, such a lovely woman. Despite her protests as she lay on her deathbed, Lavinia would have made a wonderful Countess of Grantham. "So, I was left to my sorrow and anguish – everyone thought I had a right to it. And then, I woke up. I woke up from the haze and the world had changed and I'd let things, _people_, pass me by." There was no need to clarify, no need at all. Still, Matthew needed to say it. He was sure that his mother was already well-aware, but he had to own it. Had to say it to someone. "I love Mary." Isobel's heart almost broke as her son smiled the saddest smile she'd ever seen. "Always have. If I'd woken up a little sooner, I would have told her before it was too late."

"Matthew." She sighed, whispered. Her sweet son, her baby boy. Her mind wondering what she could have done differently to spare him this heartache, this heartache which had plagued his life. Did she doubt that he loved Mary? No. Did she doubt that Mary returned his love? She had in the past, but no longer. But it didn't matter. For almost twenty years, she had watched the pair of them be snide, be coy, be spiteful and resentful, take chunks from one another, laugh with one another, flirt with one another – was that really love? Should love cause the people involved this much pain? Isobel couldn't bear watching it. She didn't want to. This...cycle needed to end for the sake of her son, for the sake of Mary, for the sake of those poor children. "This isn't another chance." She said, her tone pleading with him. "This...infatuation you've forever had...this isn't a game; she has children to provide for."

He shrugged helplessly, his tired eyes glistening. A bitter smile graced his features; it wasn't a game, it was his life. And nothing either of them had done, nothing ever said, no other people or events seemed to be able to alter one terrible, glorious point to his existence:

"I love her. Always have."

Isobel bit her lip, despairing and stood up to leave. Out of ideas as to how to save her son. He loved Mary, but he wouldn't do anything about it, not yet, because he was a good man and she was a grieving widow. He would wait years for her, a lifetime, and it terrified his mother to think that her son would waste his life waiting.

"You know," She said, opening the door to leave. "Georgina Litton asked of you. Moseley said she telephoned and you never got back to her."

Matthew barely acknowledged her, his eyes already glazing over after she had left her seat. Isobel closed her eyes to stop herself from crying at the sight of him. He didn't know that he still had yet to wake up.

* * *

><p>Mary opened the door slowly and crept inside. She smiled softly at the sight that greeted her: her two angels tucked up in their beds. Well, angels probably wasn't quite the word. They were so much more that. And she'd neglected them. She'd been short and sarcastic and plain ghastly at a time when her beloved children needed her most. She sighed inwardly; she'd never forgive herself for how she'd treated them in these last days, but she wouldn't share that thought with anyone. Sybil wouldn't have it.<p>

Mary rubbed her temples tiredly, her mind rather hazy after all the crying and the whiskey, but silently thanked God for putting Sybil on this Earth. It was her baby sister who had been the true angel this evening, saving her from the downward spiral that she'd been making. She blew out a steady breath, willing herself not to dwell on her bad behaviour and walked towards her son's bed. All he wanted to do was to be by his mother's side – how could she in her right mind deny him that? Not anymore. If he wanted to protect her, if he wanted to cry at her and insist that she hold his hand, Mary would do it all. Smoothing his hair, she smiled at how beautiful he was. One leg out of the covers, holding Nicholas upside down. Beautiful. She stroked his cheek fondly and grinned as Peter wrinkled his nose unknowingly in response.

Turning to her side, she sighed inwardly as she let her gaze rest on her daughter. The first time Mary had been able to truly look at Emily without being glared back at. Putting things right with Emmy would be far more difficult. There was an anger, a resentment, at play that she understood. The injustice of what happened – Emily needed someone to hate, just as her mother did. It would pass in time. It had to. But there was something deeper than grief in how Emily felt. Being older than her brother, she had a perceptiveness that was often underestimated. She could see the bonds within the family and the intricacies of each relationship.

Emily wasn't a fool. She could see something, something strong, between Matthew and her mother, and she didn't like it at all.

Coming to Emily's side, she gently pried Alice in Wonderland from her daughter's hands and rested it on the bedside table. Taking in Emily's face, she smiled. God, she looked like her father. Those dark blonde locks, those piercing grey eyes hidden as she slept, the freckles on her nose. She swallowed; perhaps it wouldn't pass in time. Richard was going to miss everything important. At her debutante ball, there would be no father to dance with; no father to sift through her suitors; no father to make every man seem not good enough; at her wedding, there would be no father to walk her down the aisle. Although, knowing Emily, she would become the sort of woman who daren't ever need a man. Still, there would always be those moments where one thought would resound: Father should be here.

Gently, Mary leant forward to press a kiss to her daughter's brow, before switching off the bedside lamp. She began to slowly quit the room and went to close the door, taking a fleeting look at her sleeping babies. And found those grey eyes looking straight at her. Mary blinked and paused by the doorframe.

"Emmy?"

Emily didn't move to sit up, but glanced over at her brother and then back to her mother. "...that was a kiss goodnight, wasn't it?" Though she kept her voice at a whisper, Mary could feel that her tone was small. Her question seemed like it should be rhetoric, but she could how anxious her daughter was. Her mother understood her perfectly. _Promise me that it's a kiss goodnight and not a kiss goodbye_. Mary raised an eyebrow briefly in horror that she'd left her daughter doubting if she'd be here in the morning. Taking a moment, she could feel her heart racing, wanting to cry. Matthew had been right – she'd been all wrong. Her daughter had wished her dead and Mary hadn't flinched. These last few days, she'd done her best to convince everyone that she didn't care. Her family saw through it, but it was easier to lie to children.

"Yes, it was." Mary said simply, wanting to be entirely clear. Emily seemed wary, but her mother tried to smile, hoping to put them on better footing. "Get some sleep – your Aunt Sybil is here and I'm sure you'll want to wake up early to greet her."

Emily nodded, her eyes lighting up at the mention of Sybil before her whole demeanour seemed to revert once more to one of worry. Mary raised her eyes expectantly, her palm starting to sweat as it rested – or rather held on to – the doorknob; she hoped that she looked inviting and inquisitive rather than mocking. She waited for Emily to find the right words. "I didn't mean..." Emily trailed off, fiddling with the hem of her sheet. Taking a breath for courage, she looked hard at her mother. "I don't wish you were dead."

Mary closed her eyes with relief and bowed her head briefly. It wasn't an _I forgive you_ or an _I'm sorry_; it wasn't an _I love you_ or even _I don't hate you_. But it was start. A step in the right direction.

"I know." Her mother smiled, acknowledging the effort that Emily must have made to go back on her words. She supposed one good turn deserved another. "And I do miss your father, very much."

It was Emily's turn to smile, then.

* * *

><p><em>7<em>_th__ February, 1930._

"You gave her whiskey!"

Sybil grimaced as her mother's shrill voice came at her from across the table. Whilst Mary had managed to build bridges with her daughter last night, her sister had awoken to an onslaught of questions about Mary's state of mind leading to the inevitable onslaught of criticisms. She'd travelled hundreds of miles and crossed the Irish Sea to be criticised by her family – nothing new there, then.

Whilst Sybil loved her family dearly and knew that they loved her, relationships which had once been so easy had become strained. She'd always been the baby of the family, the apple of her mother's eye, able to wrap her father around her little finger; they had only seen what they wanted to see. She had a certain kindness, an innocence, that neither of her sisters had ever had. Sybil always had a heart, regardless. And it was the regardless part that her parents had chosen to ignore. That beautiful heart that they so cherished didn't care for silly rules or for the whims of all 'good' society, but for what was right. The war had opened her eyes to a whole new world that didn't give a fig about rich and poor and, despite all the suffering, it selfishly felt wonderful to have a purpose, to be needed by people.

By marrying the chauffeur – her lovely Tom – she understood that her family may not be able to forgive her. Mary and Edith wore it well. They had attended the wedding and, once married themselves, had always sent money Sybil's way, particularly when she was in medical school. They'd encouraged her to follow her dreams of being doctor, wait before having children; Sybil had fought so hard to have a life with purpose, neither sister wanted her wasting it on bearing dozens of offspring for the pauper who'd charmed her with his Irish gift of the gab.

Tom became a journalist, worked his way up the paper, they moved from Ireland to London and the resentment her parents had held on to, particularly her father, for her deception and _Branson's shameless conduct!_ was put in a little box and forgotten about. Charlotte and Imogen were as beloved as the other grandchildren and every visit put a smile on everyone's faces. Sybil cheered up a room; she always had.

But then, sometimes, she'd do something. Bring up politics or insist a servant use Doctor instead of Lady, if he or she insisted on using a title, and the lid on that little box would be easily pried open. And how it was opening now.

There she sat, in wide-fitting trousers, the long strands of pearls and pendants, her hair still long and French-plaited – far too bohemian for a Crawley's taste – having managed to do something that none of them had done since Richard's death. Get Mary to really talk about it. She sighed heavily, a strenuous journey followed by comforting and drinking with her sister until two in the morning; she wasn't in the mood to massage any egos.

"When you telephoned before I left Ireland," Sybil tried, not wanting to sound impatient, "your sole complaint was that Mary was acting as if nothing had happened, that she wasn't emotional in the least." She looked at her mother expectantly; Cora didn't disagree. "So, she needs to express herself. She needs to shout and cry so she can have acceptance and move forward."

Edith raised an eyebrow, sipping her morning tea. "And you thought a single malt to be the answer to this."

Sybil rolled her eyes. Edith always sided with their parents now. "If crying over a glass of something helps her to come to terms with what has happened, then so be it."

"Recommending Bushmills as a means of overcoming grief," Edith continued, undaunted. "I fear for the medical profession."

"I'm a general doctor, not a psychiatrist!" Sybil snapped back, watching everybody glance between each other at her outburst. She shook her head, irritated. "I'm so sorry that I took it upon myself to help." She said dryly, looking at each of them. "All of you seemed to be doing such a wonderful job by yourselves. I know that you all believe it to be terribly below your station," her eyes resting a little longer on her grandmother, "but try having some compassion."

Cora blinked, affronted. "I have been nothing but compassionate!"

"Yet apparently you said nothing whilst Matthew and Granny tore her apart!" Sybil sighed inwardly. It hadn't been exactly what Mary had said as the evening wore on – she'd have never been so self-pitying – but Sybil could read between the lines. Crawleys could become very vocal if they saw an injustice being committed. Sybil could only imagine how Matthew must have behaved seeing Mary act so out-of-character and Granny could be unrelenting.

"I did no such thing." Granny spoke up, frowning from Robert's side. "Mary made false accusations with regards to me and her husband. I may have never been Richard's biggest supporter, but I defended the man – and had my ear bitten off for it." She muttered, not really understanding why they were having to talk about this at breakfast anyway. For Violet, discussing Mary and her troubles merely fanned the flames. If this whole affair was put to bed, then Mary would be able to cheer up.

Sybil asked for confirmation from her father, smiling as Carson refilled her cup. "Mary was unfair to Richard?"

Robert wiped his mouth with his napkin. Mary had called her husband a coward and a liar. And, though he'd had his differences with the man, he couldn't agree with her sentiments. The old dog had proved himself in the end, after a fashion. Richard hadn't been a great man perhaps, but he'd been good enough. Good enough for his daughter? Well, that he didn't know. "Yes, she was."

"Let her be." Sybil shrugged, wanting to shock them into listening. "Let her call him names. Let her hate him."

Edith shook her head, almost amused. "And you're supposed to be the nice sister."

Sybil glared half-heartedly, but chose to ignore her. "You all feel uncomfortable, because this family has been collectively and unequivocally _horrible_ to Richard from the moment we met him." She paused for effect, knowing no of them would deny it, satisfied as some of their faces coloured with embarrassment. "When he was dying, he may not have proved himself to be good company, but he proved himself to be good at times, even honourable." She looked at her father hard. "He saved Downton from ruin and he saved Mary from having to watch him wither away. You feel guilty." She shrugged; it was understandable, she did too. "So, your compassion is under a rather thick veil of impatience, because it is simply too _uncomfortable_ to see Mary resent Richard." Again, her family remained silent, as they begrudgingly acknowledged that Sybil had a point.

Cora pinched the bridge of her nose, proving that patience had become thin in this house. "So, what are we supposed to do? Simply stand by and watch?"

"Get used to it." Sybil offered, bluntly. "It will take time for Mary to forgive him. She knows that she has been taking her feelings out on everybody," She admitted, before sighing, "but it is what it is. So, try to be less irritating and pull your heads out of the sand. Stop flinching when she says the word 'suicide'." She glanced at Edith, "stop avoiding her," and watched her father looked to the ceiling guiltily before raising an eyebrow at her mother. "Stop breakfasting downstairs and commenting on how Mrs. Patmore has once again created culinary magic."

"Oh please," Edith nodded in agreement, "yes let's stop that."

Cora's jaw nearly jaw dropped at the cheek of it, but she could admit when her daughters had a point. Violet, on the other hand, was never in the mood to be dictated to. "This is ridiculous. She's my granddaughter; I know how to talk to her." Violet said sharply, losing her appetite. "I've lived on this earth far longer than you, Sybil dear."

Sybil bristled at the patronisation, but didn't retort. Granny seemed more defensive than usual. She thought back to what Mary had told her of their argument. Her eyes softened. "She doesn't hold you responsible for Richard's actions, Granny."

"Excellent," Violet replied, hiding any relief but narrowing her eyes in irritation at the awful sympathy on her granddaughter's face. "I'm glad we are agreed on that score."

Sybil exhaled at her grandmother's continued short tone, reluctant to carry on her train of thought. "But..." She trailed off, awkwardly, sick of preaching.

"But," Robert continued, reluctantly putting voice to Sybil's thoughts, warily looking at his mother, "perhaps Mary's not ready for your rational explanations as to why her husband killed himself."

Violet raised her eyebrows at him: _et tu, brute?_ "No one's ever ready for anything," She said, again sharp, "but there are some things the girl must hear."

"The _girl_, Granny?" Edith blurted. "Mary's a grown woman - she doesn't _have_ to do anything." Her tone more or less belying that her elder sister did whatever the hell she wanted.

"And she'll leave, if we treat her like a child." Robert said, swallowing guilt and thinking back to his last promise to Richard. That he would take care of Mary and the children. That he wouldn't let her leave until she was herself. "I won't let that happen."

Granny tutted, aggravated. "You're berating me, Robert – is it in aid of something?"

"Though her delivery was rude," Robert said patiently, "the message was clear and I happen to agree with her." He put a hand to finish his point. "It wasn't your place. The advice you gave to Richard, whatever it was," He held his mother's eyes, " – it wasn't your place."

"True." Sybil smiled coyly. "Mary is the only authority on what concerns her, her late husband and her children."

"Now wait here," Robert frowned at his daughter's twist of his words, "that wasn't quite what I was-"

"In short," Granny demanded, her brow creasing tiredly, with discomfort, "you're telling me not to stick my oar in where it isn't wanted?"

"Your words, not mine." Sybil smiled cheekily, going back to her plate, "But, in short, yes." Violet seemed put out but didn't reply.

"Come to think of it," Cora asked, concerned, after a moment's silence, "where _is_ Mary?"

"Nursing the headache induced by Sybil and her hipflask, I suspect." Edith scoffed, ignoring both her father's and sister's warning looks.

"Mary's outside." Granny said obviously, gesturing towards the window.

"Why would she be outside?" Cora frowned, even more concerned.

They all turned to look out the window. Off in the distance, one could see Emily and Peter chasing each another around, laughter ringing in the air. Robert smiled at the sight; it was good to see grins on their faces again, if it was only for a short while. But Sybil frowned; Mary wasn't with them.

"She's right there." Violet insisted, her eyes squinting to see properly as she watched the two figures running about on the lawn. She smiled; Mary was such an active child, loved to ride her pony and play hide and seek. "Playing." Robert and Carson shared an apprehensive look of understanding. "With - I can't quite see without my glasses - is that the Russell boy?" She frowned.

"Billy Russell, Mama." Robert swallowed, quietly. His eyes now firmly watching his mother.

Edith raised a doubtful eyebrow, also casting her grandmother a worried glance. "As in the same Billy Russell who died in the war?"

"Mama," Robert said calmly, waiting until he had her attention, "that's Peter, and that girl you see playing isn't Mary - it's Emily, your great-granddaughter."

"What?" Violet frowned, her eyes still squinting a little. "Who's..." She shook her head, frustrated. "Of course, that's not Mary. Carson, another croissant if you'd please."

* * *

><p>Walking downstairs, Mary got used to the sensation of papers under her arm, files left by Richard on their bedside table. She supposed it would become a familiar feeling. She was now the head of her own household and all talk with bankers and lawyers and goodness knows who else was to be undertaken by her. She pushed down, guiltily, any excitement; she felt terribly important.<p>

She'd assured everyone that she'd tried to keep her temper and avoid feigning indifference. And thus, in an effort to remain calm, Mary needed to keep occupied. Putting Richard's affairs in order would do that. So, she had telephoned Matthew to come up to the house with regards to Richard's will. It was time to move forward.

Mary slowed down as she reached the bottom of the stairs, surprised to see her father aimlessly, and a little nervously, pacing around the hall. Looking up at his daughter as she glanced in his direction, Robert followed her to the library door, still looking concerned.

Scratching her forehead to buy a moment to rid herself of any irritation, she smiled gently at her father. "I asked to see Matthew in the library – he's going to go through the will with me." She hoped the dismissal was implied.

"Yes, I know. I thought that I'd help explain anything you didn't understand." Robert supplied, hands behind his back, eager to do anything. He cleared his throat. "And, be there - should you need somebody."

Mary opened her mouth to bluntly inform him that she was more than competent in handling her own affairs, but paused as her father nearly flinched in anticipation. He was expecting her to dismiss him – and yet he was still trying anyway. She took in his face, she nearly smiled at the thought; he looked how she felt. Her father was hurting. Not for Richard but for herself and her children and Mary suddenly realised that she wasn't the only one who wasn't sure of their place in all of this. Her Papa was offering his support, if she wanted it. That familiar stubborn streak flared within her – that he might doubt her abilities to handle legal matters, that Richard's will was her business alone – but she suppressed it. She craved guidance from someone she trusted. She craved a gentle hand on her back.

In that moment, she needed Richard.

Swallowing, her smile wasn't as tight as Mary thought it'd be. "...Thank you, Papa. I'd like that."

"Good. After you, my dear." Robert nodded, relief gracing his features. He opened the door and guided her through, his expression growing even lighter as he saw Matthew seated, documents scattered across the coffee table. "Matthew, it's so good of you to come."

The younger man's eyes flickered up, his Adam's apple bobbing as he saw Mary. His guilt plain to see. Though his mother hadn't convinced him to stay out of matters, Matthew regretted how he behaved. When Matthew caused offence, his pride didn't stand in the way of an apology. So unlike Mary, in that regard. She could apologise when she'd wronged somebody, but how someone _felt_ about the words she said...Mary couldn't be doing with it, particularly now. She'd already forgotten all about her little tiff with Matthew at dinner and had no wish to rehash it.

She shook her head fondly, as he stood up at their approach. One hand in his pocket, the other nervously scratching the back of his neck. He was always determined to make things right, didn't he realise that most of the time he needn't? Even Mary could admit that she couldn't stay angry with Matthew for very long.

Putting her papers on the table and taking her seat opposite Matthew, she waited for him to start. Robert went to pour both himself and Matthew a glass of brandy. His eyes glanced at the pair as they carried on silently. Mary seemed pensive; Matthew seemed nervous. The Earl frowned, bemused as he put a tumbler into Matthew's hands, who was reluctant to sit down, only opening his mouth to close it again. Sitting down next to his daughter, Robert shook his head, confused by the pair of them.

Pulling at his tie, just a little, he bit the bullet. "...Mary, last night-"

"Don't." But she didn't want to hear it. Not now, not when she was trying to be responsible. Not when it was so unnecessary. She smiled softly. "No more apologises, not you and me. We've both said sorry to one another more times than I can count. We don't..." Mary paused, wanting to be succinct, but to get it right. She didn't want to have this conversation again. She fixed him a hard stare. "It's not for us. You'll always have my forgiveness, Matthew."

Matthew sat down, then. He seemed dazed, stunned even, for a moment but recovered with a nervous smile. Mary returned it reassuringly. Her father clasped his hands, his eyes shifting to the floor, starting to feel his presence to be an intrusion.

Maybe his mother was right, maybe there was no hope, but it really didn't matter when Mary was looking at him like that. He'd _always_ have her forgiveness. Regardless of what they were to each other, they were bound in a way that no one understood but themselves. Perhaps he hadn't woken up, but Matthew found himself not caring if he slept on forever.

"Thank you." Matthew whispered. He forced himself to look away and opened the folder in front of him. "...Here, I have Richard's last will and testament, citing you," He smiled again at Mary, "and your children as the recipients of the bulk of his assets. There are a few charitable donations which I made Mary aware of on the telephone," Robert raised an eyebrow as Mary was passed the document in question, "but the only other money willed is to Miss Hester Carlisle."

"Unless he had another wife hidden away in Scottish highlands." Mary said breathlessly, daunted by it all. Such matters, both legal and financial – she'd never been included in. The estate had been destined for Patrick and now Matthew and Richard only spoke of business in the vaguest of terms. She tried to keep the nerves at bay. As a widow, these matters fell to her. Her father's shocked expression helped to lighten her mood. Clearly, Lord Grantham's expectations of her late husband remained low. Mary looked at her father, exasperated. "It was a joke, Papa."

"Yes, quite so." Matthew agreed, amused as well by Robert's reaction. He glanced down at his notes. "Your sister-in-law has been left the deeds to her house in Edinburgh and enough that she need not worry about money for the rest of her life."

"Well, that's only right." Mary supposed, nearly shrugging. Despite her opinions about Hester, Richard wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

"Hmm," Matthew offered, noncommittally, having already heard this woman's name banded about, "though it pales in comparison to the money you have been left, and the children's inheritances, of course."

Robert rubbed his chin ruefully, leaning back into the settee and sipping his glass. "You won't hear the end of that, I'm afraid. Mama's invited her to stay for two weeks after the funeral."

Mary stopped a grimace, but still shook her head. Hester had been due to stay at Downton, to say her goodbyes to her dying brother, but now that he was gone, she had assumed that Hester would come for the funeral and then leave. She almost groaned at the thought. Hester would come under the pretence that Mary and the children needed her, but it was all pathetically transparent. For the Carlisle siblings, money mattered. They'd never got along, but Richard wasn't one to shirk his responsibilities and so had provided, well she might add, for his spinster sister over the years. Of course, her allowance could have been so much more and Hester had undoubtedly been hoping for some sort of pay-off when Richard died. And, for the Carlisle siblings, when there was something you wanted, you did everything in your power to get it. Richard had wanted Mary and he won her. Hester would not hesitate in using all her powers of manipulation in order to get what she considered to be rightfully hers.

"She doesn't even like him..._didn't,_ rather." Mary sighed quietly, her eyes flicking to her father's glass.

"And Mary's settlement?" Robert inquired, bracing himself. His eyes trained on Matthew, almost ashamed to look at Mary. A pained expression passed across his features. "...Did Richard's loan to me-"

"It wasn't a loan, Papa," Mary was quick to clarify, not wishing her father to be uncomfortable and not wanting to know the answer. Whether her settlement had been hurt by Richard's last cheque was inconsequential. Mary would give her right arm for her family and for Downton, for the people who lived and worked there. There was no need to embarrass her father for the sake of it, the money would remain his. "– it was a gift. It doesn't matter how much."

Robert glanced at Matthew, unconvinced. Matthew tilted his head in agreement. "She's right; it really doesn't. He wrote that cheque with the profits from Haxby." Thumbing his papers, he drew the right one and turned it to face Mary. "The crash on Wall St. wiped out Richard's assets in America, but he was already a very rich man before you emigrated. He picked the right shares to buy, didn't keep all his money in one bank and didn't put too much money into property."

But Mary wasn't listening. She was too taken aback by the figure on the page. Richard had worked every day God gave him and had amassed an empire. She passed the paper to her father; albeit absentmindedly, but he accepted it gratefully. Robert pursed his lips, impressed. "He always was savvy when it came to his finances."

"So it would seem," Matthew agreed, also astounded by how one man could create such wealth, "and thus he's ensured that Mary need never worry about her own finances. Richard's left you a fortune, and he's willed it so that there are no stipulations."

Mary raised a bored eyebrow, not wanting to seem ignorant."Stipulations?"

"Well, until the children reach twenty-one, their money is in a trust - only to be used by you in dire circumstances," Matthew clarified, again handing her the appropriate paper, "but all other money is to be spent however and given to whomever you wish. Say, should you desire to leave some money to your sisters, or have more children..." He trailed off, his eyes meeting hers. He smiled nervously, but Mary could only frown.

What had Matthew and Richard talked about? Part of her didn't want to know, but the other part had a suspicious feeling that she was discussed in a manner not befitting legal talk between a lawyer and his client. Mary was almost surprised that her father hadn't been invited to their tête-à-têtes to discuss what would become of her. She bristled at the idea. Richard had always believed that he'd met his match in Mary. Her wit couldn't be equalled, in arguments she could dance circles around him – the woman gave as good as she got, all with the elegant poise that money couldn't buy, and he respected that. But with regard to everything that truly affected their lives, Richard had always been incredibly reluctant to include her. Or burden her, as he always used to say. She'd been used to a live of privilege and thus he thought her incapable of understanding money, how could one when they had always had it?

So, he made decisions without her. All were often in the name of protecting her or enriching their lives, but, in truth, it irritated her. No, more than that, it hurt her. Usually the pessimist, Mary had gone against the grain and consciously opted to be naive, thinking that when she and Richard married and she was the lady of her own house – things would be different. Her life would be her own.

Her chest hurt thinking that Matthew might share similar ideas. That, even in Richard's death, her life had still been planned for her in some way.

"...I see. And those were his words?"

Matthew swallowed, gazing at her, monitoring her feelings on the matter. She raised an eyebrow and he looked away. Of course, she knew that wasn't why Matthew was uncomfortable. He loved her. Sixteen years ago, he'd wanted to marry her and to have all that that entailed - a home, children etc. Mary supposed that he still felt the same and, even though she knew herself to be incapable of handing the reins of her life and the lives of children to another man, her heart lifted. It felt selfishly good to know that, though she was a widow, there was someone in this world who loved her as a husband should.

Matthew had a sudden interest in the top of her head. "...Richard discussed the possible ramifications should you remarry, yes."

Mary shook her head and smiled to herself. Of course, they'd discussed it. She could only imagine such a conversation though. Richard would never want Mary miserable and, at her age, probably assumed that she'd remarry at some point, but she could envision his feelings on the matter. She didn't doubt that he was turning in his grave at the thought that they were even entertaining the idea. Correction, she thought morbidly, turning in that morgue in York.

Robert sighed inwardly at the two of them. He never understood the looks they shared and quite frankly, he didn't want to. As long as they weren't bickering. "What about the newspaper shares?" He tried, not wanting things to stall. "Are they to be sold off? Peter's hardly of an age when he can take on Richard's company."

"Carlisle Ltd has sold _all_ of it assets." Matthew confirmed, getting back to the matter at hand. Mary barked a laugh; Richard had certainly hid that from her. Well, why change the habit of a lifetime? Matthew frowned, embarrassed by Mary's surprise. He tried to smile sympathetically, but it was more of a grimace than anything. "Richard sold them after he discovered that he was terminally ill. Investors aren't keen when they're not sure who's running the show and, in times like these..." He shrugged; he didn't need to be any clearer. The markets had crashed, the world seemingly falling apart – confidence in business was a precious thing at the moment.

"And Peter was left these shares," Robert asked, drinking from his glass, "or the money equivalent to them?" Mary glared at her father half-heartedly for asking the questions she had on her mind; he smiled apologetically.

"What?" Matthew frowned, wondering at the Earl's concern for his grandson and gestured to the documents concerning the children's trusts in Mary's hands. "No. No, both Peter _and_ Emily will receive equal inheritances."

Father's and daughter's eyes were drawn to the page, both slightly in awe at the numbers. They weren't like the fortunes of the Astor children, to be sure, and it was _new_ money, but with Lady Mary of Grantham as their mother, no door would ever be closed to the Carlisle children. Millionaires, the pair of them. Robert exhaled, rather uncouthly; they were only five and nine-years-old. He chuckled, breathlessly. "And quite the inheritances, they are!" Mary's eyes hadn't left the paper.

"To Richard's chagrin," Matthew admitted, "his business went for a fraction of what its worth would have been before the financial crisis, but yes – you're going to have an heir and heiress on your hands."

_Good luck dealing with them now_. It was implied, a joke. She could hear both men share a polite laugh. But she couldn't stop staring at the words in front of her, even as they blurred together. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Equal?"

The humour left the room at Mary's whisper. A flicker of understanding passed over Robert's face and Matthew's eyes softened as Mary finally looked at him with unshed tears. He nodded slowly, assuredly, gently. "Down to the very last penny."

"Well," Robert said quietly, feeling shame at the back of his throat, "he certainly had one over the aristocracy there, didn't he..."

Mary put a hand in her mouth and stood up abruptly. She walked to the door, but didn't open it. She simply faced it, ignoring her father's concerned call of her name, letting the tears run freely.

She hadn't expected that. That he'd sold the business without telling her, discussed the idea of her remarrying – she was starting to think nothing could surprise her. But this. Richard had always wanted to mould Peter into a man. He had thought that girls and boys needed treating differently. And Mary had found that being treated differently never meant equally. But, in death, he'd put things right.

She drew in a ragged breath and put a hand on her chest to try to calm herself, but she was struggling. He'd put more things right than he knew. She wiped her neck, feeling the tears trickle down her chin, as thoughts and memories of Patrick, Matthew, her father – that blasted entail! – assaulted her. How it had injured her. How it had shaped who she was and made her doubt her self-worth. How it had torn at her soul! To know that her daughter would never feel that jealousy, that betrayal, that hurt, that Emily wouldn't become mean and resentful because of it – Mary felt that a weight had been lifted. A weight that she had nearly forgotten about entirely, so long had it rested on her.

She knew it wasn't her father's fault, not really. But all the criticism, all the condescension, if not abuse that the Granthams, including herself, had thrown Richard's way for not being one of them, for not reaching their standards - Mary felt like laughing at it. She allowed herself a sob, realising that rather than Richard falling short, it was the other way around. This was why the aristocracy were crumbling, because men, like her husband, answered to themselves, to themselves alone and were better for it. And could change the world for it.

Feeling her tears subside, she rested her palm against the wooden door to steady herself. Mary breathed deeply for a moment and turned back to her father and Matthew. She almost started crying again; they were concerned, yes, but they knew why she was crying and looked so ashamed by it.

"Sorry, I..." She smiled teary-eyed, brushing her cheeks. "Gosh, he makes it hard to be angry with him." Biting her lip, she pushed away any tears and reclaimed her seat. "Who she marries, if she never does - I don't need to be concerned, she'll be free to do whatever she wants."

There was no question as to who _she_ was. She meant her daughter, of course. But Matthew couldn't help but pause. It applied to Mary as much as it did Emily and he prayed that she recognised that. "Your daughter has enough money, in her _own_ right, to allow her to live the life to which you are accustomed – as long as she doesn't gamble it away," He smiled, begging for her recognise it, "- she'll be fine."

_She'll be fine. We'll be fine. I'll be fine_. Mary closed her eyes, believing it. Believing it for the first time since Richard put them on the evening ship to Liverpool.

"Oh pish." Robert said smiling, hoping to lift the bittersweet mood which had descended on the library. "Emily's her father's daughter – like I said, savvy with the finances." And this time, there was no hint of irony to his tone. It was said fondly, respectfully – Mary threw her father a grateful glance.

"Is that all?" Mary asked, hoping that would be the last bombshell to the proceedings – who knew reading a will could be quite so eye-opening, therapeutic even.

"I'll make copies of the exact figures, but yes, it is."

"Right," Robert said cheerfully, quickly learning how to show that he respected his daughter's privacy, "well, I'll leave you two, allow Mary to ask any burning questions privately." Mary gave him an appreciative smile. He nodded, content, before clapping Matthew on the shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Matthew, to look at those new tractors – you can take luncheon with us."

Matthew nodded, standing as Robert left the room. "Thank you, yes. I'll be here, bright and early." He waited a beat before turning to Mary, inquisitively. "Was there anything else?"

She shrugged, picking up the file that she had brought downstairs and handing it to him. "Just these papers that Richard left. I was hoping you could take a look. Most are addressed to business associates. I don't really know what they're about," She bit her lip guiltily, "I must confess that I didn't bother looking at them all." He smiled indulgently; of course she hadn't. "I hate to trouble you with them, I'm sure a clerk would suffice in-"

"It's no trouble at all." He assured her; she smiled in return. Matthew took a minute to look at Mary, really look at her. She seemed lighter. Not her usual self by any means, but she no longer seemed cut off from the world and everyone in it. "You seem different today, better." He ventured, a grin gracing his features. "Sybil must be quite the lion tamer."

She barked a laugh at his cheeky words, remembering how he'd called her a lioness. Mary chose her words carefully. "Sybil's not afraid to rock the boat if it's what right," She admitted, "if it's needed."

He nodded, his grin starting to fade. His mind was still caught on the harsh words they'd exchanged and the guilt seemed to be hanging on. Though she'd dismissed his apology, Matthew needed Mary to know that he realised that he'd been at fault. Arguing with someone who had just lost their husband; it wasn't him - wasn't who he wanted to be - and he was sorry for it.

He sighed, feeling the weight of Richard's file in his hand. "...What I said yesterday-"

"Matthew." She interrupted, bluntly. "My forgiveness, you have it." Her eyes dared him to try again.

He opened his mouth to speak, but raised an eyebrow at his logic. So much for not arguing. "Fine."

She smiled briefly, content to have her way, but he still seemed downcast at not having said what he wanted. "This is where you assure me of the same." She tried, jokingly.

"Alas, I cannot." Matthew replied quietly, his smile almost a grimace. He looked from the file to Mary. "Whenever it comes to you - there's nothing to forgive."

He supposed that he'd tried for a joke as well, but it had backfired in revealing the truth and Mary tilted her head as she noticed that he wasn't pleased by his confession. That without wanting to or meaning to, Mary could do no wrong. She could see that Matthew was almost pained by that fact and it left Mary not knowing what to feel, let alone what to say. "...Be careful," She said, finding her voice, "I'll hold you to that." He tried to smile again; she sighed heavily. Her eyes flickered to his untouched glass. "Are you going to drink that?"

His eyes shot to the glass, then to her and he fought the urge to argue with her, sensing fear starting to gnaw at his insides. He swallowed, shaking his head slowly."...No. No, be my guest."

"Thanks ever so - I'm parched." Mary smiled beautifully, taking the tumbler and making her way to the door. She paused at the threshold, tapping the doorframe. "And thank you for today."

Matthew nodded in response, waiting for her to leave the room. Once she had, he looked to the ceiling, exhausted. This was all too much for him. There he was, up close to Mary, speaking of Richard, the children, her future and yet they were both holding back so much. He felt too close and too far away all at once. And it was draining. He berated himself for not insisting that Richard find a lawyer who was less...partial. Rubbing his eyes, Matthew suddenly regretted giving Mary his drink even more.

He flicked open the file in front of him, glancing at the first few pages with boredom. Most were letters to business associates which he assumed Richard had wanted Mary to post. But Matthew paused, as he came to a cryptic note, handwritten to Mary. She obviously hadn't got that far.

_Mary, _

_Just in case._

_With all my love, Richard._

Matthew shook his head, confused, sitting down again, trying to ignore the foreboding feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. He turned over the next page nervously, frowning at what was before him. It was about a Turkish minister. _Hakan Demir_. His eyes skimmed the page, anxiously. There was a list of bank accounts, payments - evidence of fraud. He turned over the next page. Another minister. _Ibrahim Kaya_. Seemingly sex-mad – lists of prostitutes, even orgies, a few with some political big-shots. Another page. _Aykut Sevim_. Another sex scandal. Another page. _Osman Yilmaz_. Evidence of trying to rig an election. Page after page, all proving that Richard Carlisle had enough dirt on the Turkish government to cause a global sensation. Question after question went around Matthew's head. Why hadn't he published any of this? Why had he investigated the Turks, in particular? And why the _just in case_?

It was for Mary's eyes only. More certain than ever that Richard had not intended for him to have this file, Matthew still did not close it, reading until he reached the last page. It was a contract. Between Richard Carlisle and a Mrs. Vera Bates. He paused, Bates' late wife? That Bates had been acquitted of murdering ten years beforehand? It seemed she'd had a story and Richard had bought her silence.

The story was detailed, in full, in the contract. Matthew's questions answered.

**TBC...**

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><p><strong>So, he finally knows - eighteen years after the fact, but who's counting? Please review and let me know what you think!<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Another chapter, guys! I cannot express how much I appreciate your reviews, please keep 'em coming! Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9:<strong>

_11th February, 1930._

Matthew raised another eyebrow, his mother again tutting beside him as Violet's hushed whispers once more carried back to their row. "She lacks imagination." He stopped a smirk as Robert turned to Violet, sighing and starting to become more than a little irritated. Violet blinked, innocently. She gestured towards Miss Hester Carlisle, who currently stood at the pulpit. "Well, a Scotsman dies and the sister reads Robert Burns – he's clearly the only poet they have."

"Not so," Edith smiled, whispering for her share in the conversation. "Edwin Muir is Scottish."

Violet sighed turning to her granddaughter, displeased by the interruption, the contradiction and her own ignorance as to who Edwin Muir was.

Matthew had to stop himself from sighing as well. It was farcical – the funeral in its entire was farcical. Glancing wryly at the coffin, Matthew found himself envious of Richard for having been spared this morning. It was rather comforting, to have a spark of that old jealousy causing through his veins. Still, poor bugger. To have been ill for months, to meet such a desperate end – one would hope that the funeral, at least, wouldn't be so dismal. Funerals were always sad affairs, of course, but this..._this_ was painful to watch.

He flinched as more Burns wafted toward him, Hester's shrill voice sending uncomfortable shivers down his spine. Looking at the woman, her nose firmly in the air, Matthew took time to consider her. Richard's sister seemed to be a contradiction of sorts. The cloche hat, the fox pelt, the inappropriate amount of jewellery draped around her neck, - her wrists, everywhere in fact - seemed to indicate an extravagant woman, a vain woman who placed a great deal of importance on wealth but had absolutely no style or taste. He'd already seen Cousin Violet shudder with distaste before the service as Miss Carlisle inquired as to cost of the flowers and pondered on the value of Lady Grantham's brooch. On the other hand, among her many jewels, she wore a cross with pride and had held on to her rosary beads since the service started. The Carlisle family was Roman Catholic. Richard had been, too, until he'd reached a certain position in society, believing becoming a half-hearted Anglican like everybody else, would aid him in getting his knighthood and any bride of his choosing. Hester had been dismayed at the idea he was to be buried in St. Michael and All Angels rather than the catholic St. Albans or Sacred Heart.

That hadn't lasted too long, though. For Hester had been under the impression that it was the cancer that had finally got her dear Dick in the end. When she'd discovered the truth, after some confusion upon her arrival yesterday, - and almost fainted at the thought of it – she'd agreed that an Anglican churchyard filled to the brim with heretics was probably the best place for him. _My poor brother will be going to hell, after all._ The look on Mary's face at those words, Matthew was sure it would stay with him for the rest of his life.

He grimaced as he heard Cousin Violet again. Old Lady Grantham changed tact, glancing down the row to where her eldest granddaughter sat, understandably subdued. "It's good to see Mary finally in black."

Robert frowned, trying hard not to be riled. "Mama..."

"Widows should wear black. How is one to know when mourning is over? How is a stranger supposed to know her husband is dead?" Violet asked: all rhetorically, of course. "It'll make for many awkward moments, mark my words."

Losing patience, Isobel finally shifted forward in her seat. "You know full well that no one keeps to those rules anymore, not since the war."

Violet turned to look behind her, wide-eyed that Isobel should insert herself in all this. Still, satisfaction registered on her face, pleased to see someone taking the bait. "I only know full well-"

"Must we speak of the good old days during the service?" Cora snapped quietly, glancing between the two older women. Isobel sat back, sufficiently rebuked; her mother-in-law didn't bat an eyelid.

"In the good old days, my dear Cora," Violet corrected, her tone dripping with condescension, "- women didn't even attend funerals."

"_Mama_..." Robert said, a warning bite to his voice.

"What?" His mother asked, defensively. "I needn't watch my tongue; there's no one here."

Matthew almost snorted; Violet certainly had a point there. It was another aspect of this farce, he supposed. The hypocritical sister and the empty church. He didn't know any of the faces, barring the family, and he reckoned that Mary didn't either. She'd left her mother to send out the invites and hadn't given her much to go on. No one from America was here and, despite all the friends from the cocktail parties and the dances and _decent _society, the Carlisles had been a rather insular couple, never letting anyone get too close and preferring to spend their time with Emily and Peter. Mary's closest confidantes were her family and Richard; Richard's confidante was solely Mary. Many had sent letters of condolence, flowers and some were very sincere, but there simply weren't many who were prepared to travel to Yorkshire to attend the funeral of a man who'd shot himself, no matter how much money he had. The majority of those who socialised with Carlisles did so because Lady Mary was a delight rather than due to any particular affection for her husband; if she'd died, Matthew had no doubt the church would be at capacity.

He shook his head; it didn't bare thinking about. No, instead, a few of Richard's dourest-looking associates littered the pews, all seemingly impatient for the service to end and glancing over in Matthew's direction. They all knew, of course, his role in helping Richard write his will. None of the servants had come, barring Mrs. Bates and the ever loyal Carson of course, but granted, they had the wake to think of. A few of the villagers were also in attendance, but most of them appeared to be the busy-body sort, jumping at the opportunity to speak to the Earl and commenting on how ill Lady Mary looked.

Matthew looked at her. He couldn't see her face, but he was certain that Mary could feel his eyes bearing down on her. Her complexion already so pale, she looked like death in black. And how apt when the whole room ranked of it. Of death and smugness and profit and boredom. Matthew prayed, there and then, that his own funeral would not be anything like this one. Heaving a sigh, his eyes flickered once more to the coffin, that old spark of jealousy now well and truly put out for good.

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><p>Though protected in the bosom of her family, Mary still had to steel herself as she saw her sister-in-law's eyes light up and make her beeline for her. Accepting, without thanks, a sandwich from a footman's tray, her gaze wandered over the Crawley sisters and their husbands, the Countess and the Earl, the Dowager sat down and finally dear Mary. What a forlorn picture she made! Trying to stop herself from shedding too many tears, no doubt! There was a moment's silence as Hester waited for someone to speak first, an uncomfortable one.<p>

"Well, it's all over, then." Hester sighed, dramatically, trying to smooth any tensions. "Dick would have liked the service."

Mary had to stop herself from scoffing at that. Were they even attending the same funeral? "I'm glad you think so."

Hester's brow rose a little at Mary's dull tone, seeing it as a refusal to play nice. "I'm surprised the children weren't there." She said daringly. "You didn't want to give them a chance to say goodbye to their father?"

Edith's eyes widened at such audacity; Sir Anthony spluttered in his drink. Violet narrowed her eyes, but Mary didn't bother responding. It was absolutely no concern of Hester's what she did with her children. The woman had met her niece and nephew a handful of times, never displaying any interest, and now she was concerned with their emotional welfare. _Please_.

Cora frowned, resenting her self-determined role as peacemaker, but quite aware that Miss Carlisle was to spend the next fortnight at Downton. "Mary's told them that their father is in the sky, in heaven-"

"So you hope."

Robert groaned inwardly at Hester's muttering, but Cora pointedly ignored it, smiling at Mary. "You've picked out a star together for him, haven't you darling?"

"A star?" Hester inquired, taking another sandwich.

Cora waited for her daughter to elaborate, but again Mary kept quiet. "For now, she thinks that's best."

Hester turned to Mary, intrigued, the _why?_ clear on her face. She pursed her lips, amused, refusing to go on until the younger woman answered. Mary gritted her teeth for a moment, but gave in. "It'll only confuse them," Hester raised an inquiring eyebrow, Mary sighed, "...to know that he's in a box, rotting in the ground." She finished, getting some strange satisfaction by the collective grimace at her words.

The thought seemed to be a bit too much for Hester as well and her smug amusement soon reverted back to forced cheerfulness. "Children are silly little things, aren't they?" She swallowed, though her eyes again lit up as Matthew approached the group. "Ah, and this must be the infamous Mr. Matthew Crawley!"

Matthew blinked, glancing at everyone in question. "Infamous?"

"The solicitor from Manchester who suddenly became heir to all of this," She said grandly, looking almost wistfully around, "I remember reading about you in Vanity Fair." She gave him an intent stare. "...You acted as Dick's lawyer in the end, didn't you?"

Mary rolled her eyes and Robert groaned inwardly, gesturing towards Thomas. "Are you partial to a glass of chardonnay, Miss Carlisle, or Thomas here could find something more to your-"

"That won't be necessary." Hester waved him off, her attention still on Matthew. Violet looked the woman over; it seemed she could be like a dog with a bone when she felt like it.

Robert glanced at his mother; he'd had his share of trying to quieten headstrong women for one day. Sighing, he indicated that he and Cora should see to their guests; Cora wholeheartedly agreed. Leaving Mary peeved and Violet agog, the word _traitors_ on her lips, but the two women kept quiet and another uncomfortable silence descended upon the group. Seeing Hester about to ask Matthew another – undoubtedly impertinent – question, Sybil elbowed her husband gently in the ribs, who, too, had arrived only yesterday, praying he'd employ the gift of the Gab to save them all.

Jumping to it, Tom extended a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carlisle. I'm Thomas Branson – Sybil's husband." She merely looked at his hand and he smiled sheepishly, letting it fall to his side. He tried for a joke. "Another Celt in the family!"

"Oh yes," She drawled; Violet smirked as Hester suddenly, reminded of her roots, started to speak as if she hadn't been further north than the Watford Gap, "weren't you the help once upon a time?"

Tom blinked and Edith was forced to put a calming hand on Sybil's arm. Edith frowned, feigning confusion, her intent perfectly clear. "What was your father's profession again, Hester?

Sybil sighed, half-heartedly glaring at Edith; that wasn't quite the comeback she would have gone for. But, alas, it seemed to work well in, at least, making Violet feel distinctly superior. The women were all aristocrats, Anthony was of the gentry and even Matthew had a profession. The late Mark Carlisle had had money, to be sure, but he was nothing more than a wealthy greengrocer. And with someone as toffee-nosed as Hester Carlisle, such a fact hit a very painful nerve.

"Edith dear," Anthony said, not wanting to see anyone upset, " – I had a great uncle who fathered a baby with the head housemaid." Edith turned to her husband, blinking. Everyone did. Only Mary smiled softly, rather pleased that she had quite an odd brother-in-law who could be awfully handy for diffusing tension. He shrugged, as if it were obvious. "We've all got those skeletons in the closet, hmm?"

Violet clucked her tongue, quietly. "Not all of our skeletons were in trade." And just like that, the tension was back.

"You must give my compliments to Cousin Cora," Matthew smiled at Violet, his eyes begging her to stop, if only for Mary's sake, "– the Victorian sponge is very good, moist..." But Matthew's charisma only stretched so far and it sounded forced to everyone's ears. He, too, had his oddities about him; it's what made him so endearing to everyone. Occasionally putting his foot in his mouth, but always having the best of intentions.

Mary shook her head, bored, not even Matthew could put this one right. Hester was and would be unbearable. Best to avoid her when one could. "Would you all excuse me? I think that I'll check on the children."

Not giving anyone a chance to answer, she turned away and walked out into the hall. Feeling drained by the day's events, she put her back to a pillar and closed her eyes.

It was all too much. She'd thought that the funeral would bring her closure, put her mind at peace, but it had done nothing of the sort. The black she wore was almost suffocating and she'd been lonely without the children by her side. Not that she regretted having them remain at Downton, not at all. They were all just starting to put the pieces together, to talk about what they missed about Father and what they would like to remember – going to a funeral...to _that_ funeral...That was no celebration of life; it was cold and detached and awkward and Mary had counted down the minutes, the _seconds_, until she could walk away from it. Seeing his body lowered down, throwing a handful of dirt upon it brought no peace, but instead brought about a painful understanding that Richard was gone for good and she was alone.

Worse than that, she was alone and yet still surrounded. Surrounded by people like Hester bloody Carlisle.

"Can I get anything for you, milady?"

Mary's eyes flew open, surprised. She smiled softly to find kind eyes looking back at her. "Carson..." She breathed, relieved it wasn't anyone else.

"Yes, milady?"

She came away from the pillar, her eyes flicking to the drawing room, hoping they were alone. Carson said nothing; he merely stood, hands behind his back, his face seemingly expressionless to a stranger's eye, but Mary knew better, seeing the compassion there. Just _being_ there without feeling the need to say anything – Mary respected it and thanked him for it. The cynical part of her brain knew that it was hardly in the butler's job description to offer words of comfort, but still – he wasn't simply waiting on her, he was _there_ for her, wasn't he? Mary swallowed, not feeling so sure of anything anymore. "They're hovering..." She shrugged, "everyone in that room is circling."

"Circling, milady?"

She stared at him hard. He was confused, to be sure, but not wary. That was enough. "Like vultures." She went back to gazing at the door, irritated with everybody on the other side of it. "Waiting to purloin a dead man's things, strip him bear. Nobody's here for _him_. Not even the family, they're here for me."

Comprehension flashed across his eyes at her words. Whether the marriage of Sir Richard and Lady Mary was one of a great love was certainly up for debate and Carson didn't doubt that the woman before him, too, had questioned her choice of husband. His short stint at Haxby had assured him of that. But he also didn't doubt that there had been affection there, a fondness, a love built over the years. It had hurt Carson to watch Mary suffer as Richard grew gravely sick – it hurt because he loved her. And Mary suffered because she loved Richard. She had hoped that the funeral would reflect that, reflect the admiration people had for the magnate, the loyal friend, the hardworking soul that was Richard Carlisle. After ten years by his side, she'd seen the true Richard. She'd forgotten that no one else really had. Shy at heart, he'd done little to recommend himself, happy to let Mary be the star of their marriage, the star of his life. Those who came today out of love, did so out of love for Mary and, instead of soothing her ego as it might have done in her youth, it left a sick feeling in her stomach. That even today, of all days, it was all about her.

Being paid to be the watcher, the listener, old Carson had developed a certain sixth sense when it came to the Crawleys, particularly dear Mary and immediately picked up on her thoughts of self-loathing. Taking a step towards her, his eyebrows rose as he thought back to his bittersweet time as butler of Haxby Park.

"Sir Richard gave me £20 for opening Haxby inconveniently early in 1924." Mary looked up, startled but curious. "I did my best to refuse him, but he bettered me, refusing to take it back." His lips twitched at the memory, Mary smiled a little at the thought, both knowing that Richard didn't really take no for an answer. "I bought myself a very smart pocket watch and an even smarter bottle of thirty-year old scotch." Carson elaborated, smiling guiltily, an amused glint in his eye. Mary barked a laugh. "The service this Sunday, I plan to go to your husband, milady, and tell him that, though the scotch is long gone, the watch is still ticking along nicely."

Mary tilted her head then, her eyes glistening more than she wanted, her thanks clear. Carson and Richard hadn't been the best of friends. They'd been employer and employee for only a short time, but in that time, there had been something. Something for which someone was thankful for her husband. It wasn't much, but it was something. She grinned tearfully. "He'd like that." _I'd like that_.

A hand came out from behind his back and grasped her upper arm lightly, comfortingly. "I thought he would, milady." _I thought you would._ Carson looked at her, intently, hoping she would take his words to heart. "You're too young to think of death as anything other than mighty and dreadful."

Mary raised an eyebrow; the advice was different, she'd give him that. _It was alright. Funerals – losing a loved one - was supposed to be miserable._ "So, I should..." She trailed off, as laughter from the nursery made its way down the staircase. They both looked to it, wistfully, before looking to each other again. And then, Carson did something he hadn't done since she was a child. He _winked_ at her.

"Life is a gift. Do with it what you will, milady."

_You're too young to dwell on death._

* * *

><p>Opening the nursery door, Mary smiled at the sight before her, convinced more than ever that she'd made the right decision to keep her children away from this day. There, her son and daughter sat, before a dollhouse, playing and bickering, somehow all at once. A memory came to her of them doing the same in New York and, before that, Boston. Now Richard was gone, she was resolved to only think of their life across the pond with a smile. Margo sat with them, too, helping Emmy to dress the household and even little Charlotte was trying her best to be involved. It would appear, when left to their own devices, the cousins could all get along rather nicely.<p>

Still smiling, she turned to Mamie – Richard's nurse who had seemingly took on into the role of nanny – who was bouncing Sybil's youngest, Imogen, on her hip."Thank you. I'll take Imogen now," Her smile widened as the dear one held her arms out for her; the children spun around, surprised to see her, "you may go and have your luncheon."

Mamie didn't bother hiding her relief. A morning looking after five children – ranging from the ages of nine years to six months – was certainly hard work. "Yes, milady."

"All fed, are we my darling?" Mary asked the little girl, lifting her up into the air, grinning as Imogen giggled with delight. Kissing the baby on the cheek, she came to sit on an armchair and placed Imogen on her knee, content to let her fiddle with her long string of pearls. Mary nodded towards the group. "Playing with the dollhouse, I see."

Emmy got up, coming to lean against the arm of her mother's chair, pleased for a respite from amusing her younger cousins and brother. She sighed, dropping her voice to a staged whisper. "It's hard to when Peter insists on having Nicholas play, Margo keeps stamping her foot and Charlotte won't stop chewing on my little dollhouse family." Margo huffed in annoyance, but remained quiet, content to finally be in charge of whatever game they were playing.

Mary nodded, understandably, knowing that Emmy was feigning most her irritation; she'd called her brother's bear by name, after all. "And what is your little dollhouse family doing, hmm?"

"It's the evening." Emmy grinned, stroking her little cousin's curls. "The parents are having a dinner party."

"It's ever so grand, Mama!" Peter called out in agreement, lying flat on his stomach, legs happily swinging in the air.

"What's happening?"

"The children are excited; they don't want to go to sleep, yet." Emily said, enjoying having an adult to whom she could tell her elaborate story – of which Margo and Peter didn't give a fig about. She ran back to the house and picked up a doll, holding her up for Mary to see. "And this one – she's called Molly – she's running into their bedroom to see Father helping Mama put on her pearls." Mary's eyes softened. It seemed Emily's story had more than a little real-life inspiration. "Mama will put on her lipstick; they're excited, too."

"Then, what?"

"Then, Father allows us downstairs a moment before the guests arrive." Something caught in Mary's throat at Emmy's mention of _us_, the lines of reality and fiction blurring. Her story nothing more or less than the happiest of memories. "He puts something on the gramophone, let's me...let's Molly," She corrected, smiling breathlessly, "stand on his feet as they dance. _Then_, Peter asks you for a sip of your wine and he doesn't like it, he never does." Emmy's voice grew smaller, but more knowing as she made her way back to her Mama. "He pulls a face and we all laugh, before we go to bed. But, we don't, not yet. Helen says if we keep quiet, we can watch everybody from the landing, through the banister." A flicker of wonder across her mother's face. Emily smiled ruefully. "You didn't know that. Father will never know that now, I suppose."

Suddenly, the room wasn't quite the joyful, young place she'd stepped into and Mary felt guilt at the thought that she'd brought the depressed and melancholic air from downstairs with her. Even dear Charlotte took a moment to stop tormenting the dolls, shrugging grimly. "It's sad."

A silent murmur of agreement. Only Imogen's gurgles and hand-clapping broke it up. Peter didn't care for it. "Father was never sad about anything – said it was a waste of time."

A waste of time. Mary smiled inwardly; it sounded like something Richard would say. "Yes, I do believe that he did..." She bit her cheek thoughtfully before a lightbulb went off, "...and I think he was right. Margo, sweetheart, would you go down to the servants' hall? – See if a footman can bring up the gramophone."

Margo blinked at the request, but got up, obligingly. "But what if Grandpapa asks what I'm doing?"

Mary wasn't concerned. If anyone could get away with murder, it was Margo; a gramophone shouldn't be a problem. "God gave you eyelashes darling, just bat them."

Emily frowned, feeling decided left out. "What are we doing?"

"_We_," Mary drawled, allowing Imogen to stand on her knees, "are going to have a party."

* * *

><p>After an hour or so had passed, Cora had started to become concerned about her daughter's whereabouts. The wake had gone on much as it had started. Polite conversation and Matthew having to fend off awkward questions. The entire family were waiting eagerly for it all to be over - to leave Mary and the children to their grief, to be cocooned by those who loved and cared for them rather than these leeches. It hadn't taken long for Cora to twig that Hester's <em>heartfelt<em> letter, as well-written as it was, lacked sincerity. For a woman who had lost her only brother, her parents already gone, Hester seemed fairly unperturbed. The optimist in Lady Grantham hoped that it was all a mask, a result of a strict middle-class upbringing and that, when the guests had left, Hester, too, would take the time to grieve for her brother, but she was reluctant to hold her breath. Such thoughts were put to the back of her mind, however, as guests here and there began to gently inquire as to where Lady Mary was. She'd hoped that Mary was resting, the funeral having been all too much for her, but had her doubts – her fears – that her eldest was currently hidden in the library or in the servants' hall with morose meditations and a bottle. Somehow, she wondered as she opened the nursery door, hitting the bottle would be preferable to this.

"Mary, what is the meaning of this?"

Cora choked out, her voice high, her eyes wide. Before her, stood Mary, in a party dress, glittering, her knees on show, a grin from ear to ear, bouncing her niece Imogen on her hip. Margo and Peter both were making knock knees and sliding their hands across them, Margo wore a feathered hairband, her cheeks rosy with blusher; Emmy danced, too, holding Charlotte's hands to help her, her mother's beads draped around her neck, lipstick smeared everywhere. Paul Whiteman's _Charleston_ flooded the room, only laughter penetrating it.

Sybil and Edith stood beside her, as soon did her husband and Violet, Robert having helped his mother up the stairs. All equally shocked by the scene before them. Cora's mind was sent reeling. A man had _died_, there'd been a funeral – there were mourners still helping themselves to nibbles in the drawing room!

"We're dancing, Grandmama, do join!" Margo said, grinning as Peter fudged the dance up again. "It's awful fun!"

"Here, take Imogen," Mary smiled brightly, passing her niece to Sybil, feeling distinctly younger than her thirty-six years, ignoring the gloomy weight that her family in black had suddenly brought to the room, "I'm trying to show them the Charleston." She said breathlessly. "I had them performing the Shag, it's very popular with Americans that. The Charleston was such fun, wasn't it Sybil? Remember, us, in that little jazz club in Mayfair – what a night!"

Sybil was still startled by his sister's sudden change in demeanour, but her lips still twitched fondly at the memory. "I haven't danced that in forever."

"I admit, it's no longer quite en vogue - everyone's hanging up their flapper dresses for good – but I can't help myself."

Violet raised an eyebrow at her granddaughter's behaviour. "Which begs the question - child, what are you wearing?"

"I can hardly do this sort of dancing in a floor-length, can I?" Mary defended; her grandmother blinked, almost offended, as she gave them a twirl. "Do you like it? May 1925, a quaint boutique in Paris – silver lamé. Richard chose it." She finished proudly.

Violet was aghast. Had the girl no sense of priority? She looked to Cora to rebuke her, but her daughter-in-law seemed unable to shake her shock. "Yes," Violet said curtly, "which begs another more important question, have you forgotten the little matter of his funeral?"

"How could I, it was ghastly!" Mary agreed, though still smiling and pleased to see that the children weren't really paying too much attention to the conversation at hand. "This is a far better way to spend the day, isn't it?"

"Look Mama," Margo ran up to Edith, not giving Violet a chance to respond, "Aunt Mary taught me how to do The Kick!"

"I can see that." Edith smiled down, flicking the feathers in her daughter's hair fondly. Her eyes looked back up to her sister, concerned. "Are you quite well, Mary?"

_Well?_ Violet snorted. It was clear what this was. As drunk as a lord. "How many-"

"Not a glass." Mary interrupted, her voice finally sounding tight, her eyes full of warning. "Of anything."

"Mama," Peter asked shyly, "am I doing it right?"

"Of course, you are!" His mother assured him, her grin firmly back in place. "Swing your arms a little more and it'll be perfect – that's the beauty of the Charleston, one can almost make it up." She glanced back at her family, all still in various stages of disbelief.

Edith seemed puzzled, as did Papa. Cora looked horrified; Granny looked disgusted. Sybil, at least, seemed impressed that, for once, Mary had decided that she didn't give a damn for anyone else's opinions. And she really didn't. If the children, innocent as they were, didn't judge her, how could her family – full of sordid secrets and poor decisions like any other – decide to take the moral highground and look down on her? She felt _exhilarated_. The best she'd felt since she'd set sail back to England and she couldn't be sorry for it.

After Matthew had withdrawn his proposal, she'd taken it as punishment and buckled down and done what was expected. Find somebody else. She never said anything about how she felt or what she wanted. She feigned happiness for Matthew. She befriended Lavinia. She nursed Matthew in hospital and wheeled him endlessly about the ground, all without any expectations. She accepted Richard. She married Richard, releasing her parents from the burden of her. She did all that was expected of a wife and then she did all that was expected of a mother. She'd taught her husband protocol and manners and society's silly quirks and intricacies. He'd followed her – with a bemused smile – because he wanted to be part of the club, but whenever he asked why, all Mary could say was that it was just what one does. _What one does_. She could laugh in the face of that right now. How is that in any way _living_? Today, she was _expected_ to be as miserable as possible. Expected to be unhappy! She sighed inwardly, relieved, as Carson entered the room – his eyebrows hitting his hairline at the crowd which had gathered in the nursery – and she thought back to his counsel, which seemed evermore wise. Life was a gift. She smiled down at her son, determined to know how to dance. She shrugged, repeating Carson's advice. "...Do with it what you will."

Carson, having felt her gaze and heard her words, paused only for a moment before collecting himself. "Excuse me, Lady Grantham, but I believe the last of the guests look to be leaving."

"I see, thank you Carson," Cora said rather tersely, finally drawing her eyes away from the jubilant picture in front of her." She waited for Carson to leave, embarrassed to berate her daughter in front of the butler. She clucked her tongue at Mary, suitably disappointed. "I've told everybody that this morning was rather exhausting for you and so you took to your room." She hissed. "You are not to come downstairs until everyone is gone – with that smile..."

"Let her smile, dear." Cora turned, surprised, as her husband deigned to impart his thoughts. The wistful beginnings of a smile of his own as he gazed at his eldest. Sybil grinned, wholeheartedly agreeing, and Edith, too, didn't wish for the scene before her to come to an end.

"Any other day," Cora said, irritated, but trying to stay rational, "– Robert, this is the day she buried her husband."

But rational was the last thing on Robert's mind. His daughter was happy and he'd be a fool to disrupt that. Violet tilted her head slightly, repulsion starting to fade as she supposed that, indeed, it was the day Mary had buried her husband, the often irksome Sir Richard Carlisle – a morning to mourn suddenly seeming to suffice."Rather a smile than tears, I suppose." Violet muttered. Sybil's eyes rolled at her grandmother's ability to be so contrary and, with Imogen firmly in her arms, she left the room to save her husband from the condescending claws of Hester Carlisle. Kissing her daughter's cheek and whispering for her to be good, Edith also decided that she'd gaped enough at her sister and that all was well. Cora almost spluttered at her mother-in-law's change of tune. "Crying is unseemly in public – I do hate how so many people think a funeral gives them permission to sob into their handkerchiefs."

"Implacable, Mother," Robert deadpanned, amazed by the woman that was his mother; today had certainly been the day of quick quips and one-liners. Unstoppable. " – from the moment you came down for breakfast."

Violet frowned imperceptibly, leaning thoughtfully on her cane. "I've been in a rather good mood today, I thought."

"Mama's pretty when she's smiling." Peter tried, finding his Grandmama still looking rather irritated. "Father never liked it when she was gloomy. Do you want to dance, Grandpapa?"

"No, no, you enjoy yourself, my boy," Robert replied smiling, pleased to see his wife beginning to thaw at their grandson's words, " – Charlotte, there's still cake left," No more needed to be said; the toddler flew into her grandfather's arms, "Ah, there! Margo?"

"Yes," Margo drawled eventually, after an internal debate with herself. Robert nodded, satisfied, and left, Violet hot on his heels. " – you'll teach me other dances, too?" She pleaded with her aunt; Mary raised an eyebrow. "Please?"

"I think that can be arranged." Mary agreed, happily shaking on it. Baffled, but unwilling to take things further, at least, not tonight, Cora took Margo's hand and, with a last fleeting look, left the room as well.

Mary sighed and turned back to the last occupants in the room. Peter and Emily. Her babies. Both looking up at her, implicitly trusting and eager to learn. It was just the three of them now. It would take her time to get it right, she was sure. She'd make many mistakes along the way and they wouldn't get along all of the time. They had Crawley blood pumping round their hearts; there would be stubbornness and indignation, a good dose of bickering and many cutting witticisms. But then again, there would be what she saw in their eyes right now. Plenty of love. And that would be enough. For today, however, all they wanted to do was dance.

"Who's for learning how to do the Black Bottom?" Mary threw her head back and laughed as two hands shot into the air. And there she'd been thinking this would be the worst day of her life.

* * *

><p>Looking out onto Downton's grounds, not a blade of grass out of place, Mary shuddered as goosebumps made their way onto her arms, despite her shawl, as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon and the amber glow that had bathed her so well faded away. But she wasn't cold, not quite. Absentmindedly, she swirled the contents of her tumbler and brought it to lips, having its contents rest on her tongue before letting it tingle the back of her throat. Today hadn't started well, but she'd liked how it'd finished.<p>

Breathing deeply, Mary who was sitting on the bench, let her eyes flutter closed, accustoming herself to the drop in temperature. She sighed, contently, as a gentle breeze tickled her face and caught wisps of her hair. Spring was here. And the cool air still managed to warm her soul as she went over her glorious afternoon. She felt liked she'd been to a ball; her feet tired, but wonderfully so after having spun and spun around the room. She smiled, knowing she would remember the looks on her children's faces today for the rest of her life. It was the first time she'd heard them laugh in so long.

Hearing feet crunching on the gravel, she stiffened for a moment but forced herself to relax. She wouldn't be berated by anyone this evening. She wasn't sorry for it. Slowly opening her eyes, Mary turned, not surprised to see Matthew come take his place beside her. She raised a gentle inquiring eyebrow, surprised at how at ease he seemed, expecting him to be awkward and unsure of himself. He merely smiled in return, looking out on to the view and up to the sky, where the moon had taken over from the sun.

"I hear you were dancing." He offered gently, his words - no matter how smoothly spoken – interrupting the silence Mary had been enjoying.

Still, his words managed to make her tingle more than the scotch.

She let her eyes wander over his face, searching for judgement, ready to pounce on him. "Yes, I was." Mary replied, not remorseful in the slightest. "I enjoyed it, as did the children."

Matthew nodded unnecessarily, leaning, too, on the bench. "Your mother wasn't impressed."

There was no accusation in his tone, but she still bristled, having already been told off enough for one day. She glanced at him, her eyebrow now raised daringly. "Have you come to lecture me?"

"I shan't be doing anything of the sort." He insisted calmly, still looking out onto the grounds. "though there weren't many pleased faces in the drawing room."

A woman of lesser breeding would have snorted. "There weren't many faces."

Finally, Matthew looked uncomfortable. He grimaced, bringing one arm to rest along the back of the bench behind Mary. "The turn-out did seem poor, I'll admit. I thought Richard had more friends than that, more associates."

"He was respected, but liked..." Mary sighed, shrugging. Courting friendships had always been what Mary did best. "I'm not sure - and who's going to travel so far out of London to attend the funeral of a man whose death was such a scandal?" She asked, resenting again the distasteful way in which her husband had died.

Matthew pursed his lips, turning to face her, hoping her question to be rhetorical. Instead, he made a reluctant observation. "Your sister-in-law was surprised that he was permitted a burial on holy ground."

"I bet she was." She knew she was. This time, Mary did snort. How she was going survive a fortnight with Hester Carlisle, she didn't know. She shook her head, feeling very bitter on Richard's behalf. "Even his own editors ran the story. The funeral..." Her mind wandered back to this morning, which mere moments ago had seemed so far away. She pulled her shawl up to cover her shoulders better; there was suddenly a nip in the air. "I hated it."

"Does anyone _not_ hate a funeral?" Matthew asked wryly, loosening his tie a little. He'd seen enough death in his life not to dwell on it.

"I've been to some less depressing. My great-aunt Roberta's was something to behold, such a character." Mary offered, her lips twitching in remembrance and clinging onto the brighter memory. "She planned it all beforehand. We sung _Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee_; I think she only chose it to make Granny scowl." Matthew grinned indulgently, picturing Violet's reaction. "The church was heaving, there were that many." But any hint of a smile vanished as Mary once more thought back to her husband's funeral. Sybil had been right to say that he wanted to go out with a bang; it was a pity that no one else cared to know. She sighed shakily. "Today, Richard's was...it was awfully dreary, it was awfully..." She shrugged, there was no better word for it, "awful."

Matthew bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully and really looked at the woman beside him. The silver threads of her dress catching the moonlight like stars; Mary looked like a woman who'd just been on the town, who'd just had the night of her life. If one didn't catch her expression, that is. He hadn't been surprised when she'd upped and left the wake, assuming, like everyone else, that she'd retired to her room. That today had all been too much for her. He had been surprised, however, when his mother had informed him that Cousin Mary was dancing and laughing with all the children. His mother had shook her head at it, but Isobel still had a twinkle in her eye at how Mary had managed to rile up her grandmother with such inappropriate behaviour.

As Mary had come down the staircase and fled the house in search of air, finally free of all its guests, he'd caught that same twinkle in her eye. And it had stopped Matthew in his tracks, so rare a sight it was. This morning, she had looked like a woman on the cusp of despair. She was right. It'd been awful and that hour or two in the church had indeed been too much for her. He found it impossible to fault her for needing a release, for needing to put a stop to this black hole that she'd been slowly tumbling into.

"This had to be something other than the day where Richard had an awfully awful funeral." Matthew supplied understandingly, unquestioningly. He shrugged. "...So, you danced."

Mary smiled sadly, allowing herself to be taken in by his kind gaze, thankful for having Matthew Crawley in her life. "So, I danced." She whispered, her brow creasing as tears sprung from her eyes for the first time that day.

Matthew said nothing as she took a moment to collect herself, his eyes still sympathetic but without pity. Though he didn't touch her, Mary suddenly welcomed the support of having his arm behind her, not knowing whether she was imagining the warmth radiating from it. It didn't matter, she supposed, she was still grateful. She looked back at him, comforted that those eyes hadn't left her and felt suddenly in awe of him. Of all that he'd seen in his life and thinking herself quite unbecoming to be so caught up in her own. He'd been to war; he'd nearly died in the process; his recovery, long and miraculous; but Mary couldn't help but think of dear, sweet Lavinia.

Mary had _had_ a life with her betrothed: a marriage, children, a home. She had memories that she wouldn't give up for the world, a son and daughter who were everything to her, photographs and souvenirs to show for the years spent together. What had Matthew to show for any of it? Lavinia had been his fiancée for nigh on three years; she'd been a mere day from being his wife. They would have had a life together, a marriage, children, a home. But she'd been torn from him before they'd exchanged rings and long before her time. And what Matthew and Lavinia had shared had been something far purer, far lovelier than anything she had shared with Richard. Would it have stood up to the grit needed to be husband and wife? Nobody would ever know, but it was beyond unfair that they'd never had a chance to try. It is better to have loved and lost then never loved at all, wasn't that it? Instead of being able to look back at their wonderful lives together, Matthew could only bitterly wonder at what their lives could have been, being eaten away by guilt over that dance and that kiss. It couldn't have been easy for him, but he seemed to have carried on without tearing his hair out. He'd borne it, like no other could.

She'd always feared looking weak in front of the man, but right now Mary could not think of anyone better to turn to for advice.

"May I ask you something?"

His eyebrows raised a little, disconcerted by the timidity in her tone and wondering where her thoughts had taken her. "You already did, but I suppose one more question wouldn't hurt." He said, tapping the bench, trying to lighten things.

Mary ignored his attempts at humour. "How did you bare it? The pitying looks, their commiserations..."

Comprehension dawned on him, a look – somehow both regretful and wistful – flickering across his face, his mind cast back to a time where the bones didn't creak and he still absentmindedly introduced himself as Captain Crawley. He didn't need to ask Mary to be more specific. _Lavinia_.

"I bit my tongue and," He offered, his tongue briefly hitting the top of his mouth uncomfortably as a familiar, though phantom, taste of anger and injustice tried to dance upon it, "...and made peace with the fact that it was something that everybody close to me needed, even if _I_ didn't."

"What if I'm not in such a selfless frame of mind?"

"Then," He smirked at how easily her innocent question would become a reality, "I have no doubt one look from you will have them swallowing _all and any_ words of sympathy rather rapidly."

She nodded and smiled at his joke half-heartedly. Glare at people if you won't them to stop: not the best of advice. But she accepted it without question, merely sipping on her drink pensively, going back to looking across the gardens. Mary frowned after a minute or two, still feeling Matthew's gaze upon her, and looked back at him questioningly.

He looked back unflinching for a moment before seemingly coming to the decision to speak. "Quid pro quo."

"You have a question?"

"I do." Matthew affirmed, feeling quickly nervous, but forcing all emotion from his features and holding Mary's expectant stare. "Is it true that the Turkish gentleman, Kemal Pamuk, died in your bed?"

Mary blinked. Taken aback by both his directness and how calm he sounded, she wondered if she'd imagined it. Her head shook imperceptibly and her stomach lurched, questions reeling and many feelings coming and going. Still looking calm, he took the glass that she had limply in her hand and rewarded himself with a large gulp, relieved to have finally asked her, whilst she still sat wide-eyed. An outsider could even find humour in it, but Matthew soon – and not knowing whether to kick himself for it – took pity on her. "Those documents that Richard left in your room were not for me."

She shook her head again, he didn't need to say it. Briefly, she'd wondered if Richard had decided to leave this world dropping her in it, but, deep down, Mary knew he wasn't capable. He was committing suicide; there was no need to destroy the Carlisle reputation any further. Her eyes closed, resentfully wondering how many more times in her life she would have to have _this_ conversation with someone. Her father had even used it in the hopes of convincing her not to marry Richard. She questioned why Matthew wanted to bring it up.

Opening her eyes, she gave Matthew her full attention, making herself numb to the memory and how it had altered her life in so many ways, some beyond repair. All she could now was settle on old faithful: resignation.

"He did." Mary replied quietly. "He came to my room, uninvited. I asked him to leave. He didn't. And I didn't ask him again after he kissed me." Matthew frowned as she kept all feeling out of voice. No apology, no embarrassment, no indignation or justification, like she was reciting a list. He didn't know whether he was thankful for that or not. "One moment we were making love, then he went stiff-"

"Wasn't he stiff enough already?" He snorted, surprised at how he'd let sourness overcome him. His eyes shot to her, contrite. Mary seemed neither surprised nor affronted by his words.

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully though, daringly taking back her drink and having a sip of it, trying to calm her hidden nerves. "I suppose you think that I'm beyond being scandalised now."

He shifted uncomfortably at all that she implied, imagining what society would have to say about her if any of this got out. He paused to consider whether he shared any such sentiments, but found that he couldn't, wouldn't, didn't. Matthew thought to apologise, but wasn't ready to give any ground. He sighed instead. "You're not the only one who has transgressed."

"You're a man; the rules are different."

"_My_ rules aren't." He insisted, huffily. Mary almost rolled her eyes. Matthew frowned, struck by a thought. "You told Richard, but you never told me - was that why you didn't..." He trailed off uncomfortably, shaking his head and amazed at how fresh the memory in question was, always was.

"Accept your proposal?" She offered, reading his mind, her attempt at a smile turning to a grimace. "Well, I didn't want to marry you without telling you and the thought of telling you was unbearable. In truth, though..." Mary glanced down into her glass and back at Matthew, buying time, struggling to say what she had to – conscious of how snobbish she would sound. "I wasn't sure if I could be a lawyer's wife."

Mary waited, preparing herself for the inevitable sign of disappointment, for his finding fault in her character. Instead, Matthew appeared as if the news wasn't really news at all. He assumed it, expected it, perhaps more so expected it from _her_. And Mary found that stung a lot more than any disappointment. To his mind, however, her stance back then was rather understandable with the perspective nearly twenty years buys. She'd been pragmatic. Still, pragmatism is hardly the making of a great love story. "You'd grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, I understand."

"You deserved – you _deserve_ – better than a woman who might ever resent you." She insisted, handing him back her glass, firmly and clearly by way of an apology. She couldn't say the words, of course. To admit she was sorry, was more or less admitting regret and there was no point in dwelling on things that neither one could change. On a hypothetical that would never be played out, never be lived. All Mary could settle on was speaking honestly about what she felt free to say. "I had doubts and you assumed that I was waiting to see whether Mama's baby was a boy - maybe I was. I don't know. I can be so brash sometimes - but I'm not like Sybil, I'm not impulsive at all."

He drank from her glass before cradling it in his palm and threw Mary a wry glance. "You dither, I'll give you that."

"I thought you'd be...upset, perhaps or..." She wasn't sure what she thought; she just hadn't expected the calmness radiating from him, as if they weren't discussing the fact that she'd taken a lover out of wedlock.

He shrugged, noncommittally agreeing and taking another sip. "So did I. It was a shock; I wasn't pleased to read it. Then, I saw the date." He breathed, almost dazed as he pictured that piece of paper detailing it all in his hand. "1913. _Seventeen years ago_, give or take." Matthew shook his head a little in awe that so much time had gone by and leant closer. "The person that I could have been upset with – she isn't here anymore." A barbed tongue, dark locks pinned up high, a penchant for red dresses and analogies employing Greek mythology – that wasn't who was sitting next to him on the bench. He smiled softly, his words honest and not in jest; she didn't take offence. "Prickly and bitter, but in that rather petulant and ignorant way only a _girl_ can be. You were innocent and he was wrong to take advantage of you. I had a crush on that girl, but would I have fallen in love with the woman before me if she hadn't experienced what she did?" A smile tugged at his lips, weighing his options, knowing her to be the same and different. "I'll never know, so I can't be sorry for it."

And despite convincing herself that whatever he thought didn't matter, Mary couldn't fight the relief she felt. As if something quite old, and very bound up had finally loosened.

Not trusting herself to be able to voice such relief, she settled for conveying her gratitude with simply a look. It seemed to be enough. And the arm that Matthew had draped leisurely across the back of the bench came to rest its hand on her shoulder, and pulled her in for a gentle embrace.

"I must admit, I had quite the crush on you, too." Mary offered after a while, enjoying his warmth at her side and accepting back the glass. "Later, of course – whilst your attraction to me was immediate and only natural." She said, allowing herself a small smirk as Matthew affectionately rolled his eyes. "Perhaps it was the bicycle or how tight you had your tie."

"I liked to dress properly, I still do." Matthew tried, a defensive hand coming up to his collar.

"You were a stick in the mud." Mary commented; he tilted his head in begrudging acceptance. "But you cared, and held your own in an argument, you were funny..." She grinned, turning to really look at his face. He frowned, bemused at the attention, but held her gaze and kept quiet, eventually smiling back. Mary swallowed, his hand on her shoulder starting to burn. "We shouldn't be talking about this...not today." Again, he kept quiet. She drank more from the glass, deciding to tread on more solid ground. "You're not going to tell me off for drinking again?"

"Not today."

Mary mentally shook herself, putting the fuzzy feeling in her belly down to the scotch and not the softening affection in Matthew's eyes. She frowned, thinking back to how this whole conversation had started. "Why had Richard written that all down? To remind me what a lucky wife I had been?"

"It contained the contract he'd had drawn up with the late Mrs. Bates and also a few, well _many_ pages on various current and previous important members of the Turkish government." Matthew supplied. "Richard had certainly done some digging - he came up trumps."

"In case, someone tried to leak it, or ever tries to." She finished quietly. Pursing his lips and staring at Mary, Matthew seemed to come to sort of a decision and, using his free hand, reached into his jacket pocket. Looking at it briefly, he then passed it to Mary. It was a note. The note that Richard had left her. _Just in Case. With all my love_.

Mary blinked. It seemed that, from the grave, Richard was doing everything to prove he was a better man than she'd ever esteemed him to be. No one at that funeral had a clue as to what sort of man Richard was and that made her feel better, to accept this morning just as the little farce she felt it to be. As long as she and her children remembered him the way they wanted, who cared for what was said when his body was put six feet under? A tired smile crossed her face. "He thought of everything."

"Yes, he did."

Mary took another moment just to stare at it, before rolling her eyes, irritated by the melancholy of it all. She nearly laughed as she looked down at herself, dressed up to the nines on such a day. Instead, she blew out an annoyed breath, knowing it was almost time to return to house – and to be in company that was less than desirous. "He was still a coward though," She insisted, petulantly, sighing at Matthew's look of confusion. "Well, honestly, shuffling off this mortal coil when he _knew_ that Hester had already scheduled to visit..."

Matthew barked a laugh, oddly pleased to hear such irritation in her voice. He pried the glass again from her hands and raised it. "To Richard," He smiled, waiting a beat. "- and his impeccable timing. May he rest in peace."

Mary shook her head, reluctantly amused. "He better not rest at all until she goes back from whence she came."

Matthew didn't bother to hide his own amusement, throwing his head back laughing. If Mary had to suffer, someone had to as well. It was only fair; it was so Mary. "Quid pro quo?" He gave her back the glass, absentmindedly rubbing her shoulder.

"Quid pro quo." Mary agreed wryly, raising the glass a little herself and then throwing it all back. "Cheers."

**TBC...**

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><p><strong>Let me know what you think! <strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**So sorry for the late update, computer was on the blink :( Hope you enjoy this chapter. I wanted to explore more of Hester and Mary/Edith in this chapter so don't worry if you expected to see more of Branson and whoever popped up last time, you will. Again let me know what you think, it's really helppful for writing the next chapters to see which bits you like. Enjoy and review!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 10:<strong>

_12__th__ March 1930._

Coming back down the stairs for luncheon, Mary halted as she found her sister-in-law standing in the great hall, relieved that she'd finally bumped into the woman. Not too relieved, however, as she dreaded the conversation they were to have. Hester had been in residence at Downton for a month. The original plan had been a week, perhaps a fortnight. No invitation had been extended and no request made, and yet Richard's sister still remained under the Earl of Grantham's roof and seemed unhurried to remove herself.

All of this would have been fine had the Crawleys cared for the woman's company, but Hester Carlisle could be trying, to say the least. Her manners were often crude and the way in which she spoke to the servants was near embarrassing; she clearly thought very highly of herself. She had no qualms about making herself very at home and undermined the adults of the house by spoiling Peter and Emily far too much. Yet, it left many wondering as to why because she displayed no sincere affection for the children. Then, of course, there was the sanctimonious nature of character accompanied by a nice dollop of Catholic hypocrisy. Hester was quick to correct and scold anyone for boasting or being cheeky, but such discipline was forgotten when it came to herself. Her attempts to discipline her niece and nephew had been ignored in order to avoid an argument, but many were growing tired of playing nice.

Violet, of course, had longed since tired of playing nice. She hadn't bothered with the pastime since before the turn of the 20th century and she had no plans to alter her behaviour. But her coldness and her quick putting down of all Miss Carlisle's attempts at civility were not without reason. In fact, her daughter-in-law and her son were also rather sharp with their guest. Everyone was, apart from Mary.

Because under that goofy exterior of social faux pas and the reek of cheap perfume, there was a woman who certainly knew what she was doing. No one related to Richard Carlisle could be lacking in calculation and in shrewdness. Fortunately, intelligence wasn't lacking among Downton either and it was abundantly obvious that Hester wasn't hovering around because she had nothing else better to do. She wanted something.

And with Mary suddenly unwilling to confront or argue with her sister-in-law, the Crawleys – young and old - all agreed that it was best if Hester should make a relatively quick exit.

Mary sighed inwardly, coming to the foot of the stairs and bracing herself. "Hester, I was hoping to speak with…" She trailed off, as Hester began putting on her gloves. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Into Ripon, hopefully – thought I'd see what Yorkshire has to offer." Hester smiled pleasantly. Mary raised an eyebrow; she was too grief-stricken to leave Downton, but not enough to forgo shopping. And Ripon was hardly Yorkshire's best offering. Hester's smile turned placating. "Of course, I want to buy something nice for the children, as well. In such times, a little spoiling can't hurt. Care to join?"

"I won't, if you'll forgive me." Mary said quietly, her eyes appraising her sister-in-law. She seemed to be dithering a little. "Sybil's thinking of leaving for London soon, so I would like to spend all my time here for now – is there a problem?"

Hester licked her lips guiltily. "My driver isn't able to take me."

"Well, I should hope not." Mary offered, conversationally. "You came here by train – God willing your chauffeur is still alive and well in Edinburgh." Hester said nothing to that; Mary swallowed uncomfortably, wondering if she had a chauffeur at all. "I'm sure my father's man can take you."

"Apparently not."

Mary blinked. _Oh_. Hester's face seemed unfazed, but there was definitely a chill in her tone. Papa and Matthew were in York for the day, attending to estate business, but they had decided to take the train. His man was available to drive anyone around, unless expressing told otherwise. Hester had used the car thrice this week – plainly, her father had said enough was enough. Any pretence of a warm welcome was at an end. Downton wanted Hester gone. Again, Mary swallowed nervously, her sister-in-law's eyes boring into her, waiting for her to say something.

"I see."

Not exactly the sympathetic answer Hester had been expecting, no doubt. "Dick's man isn't here?" She asked casually, but her eyes did not leave Mary's. "Poor bastard," Mary flinched, "only now am I beginning to wonder how unhappy a man must be to take his own life like that? How he must have-"

"Gable is here and he'd be happy to take you." Mary blurted, desperate for the other woman to stop. She feigned a smile. "He's only had Emily and Peter to drive back and from school – you'll be a breath of fresh air."

Hester raised an amused eyebrow at that, but let it be. "Thanks ever so."

"Hester, I…" The older woman gave Mary her full attention, her eyes once again trained on her ,"do you have plans for…for your return back to Scotland, perhaps? Only…"

Hester smirked, as Mary seemed to almost shuffle on the bottom step. "I've outstayed my welcome."

Mary's eyes widened. "Not at all. It's just that I don't even know how long _I_ plan to remain here and so I didn't-"

"I do envy you." Hester drawled, coming closer. "Where I live, it's so provincial, but Dick was never too keen on my moving to London – he never wanted me to be too close. I was, I still am, the sole person living who knew him _before_. Before all the money and the newspapers and the knighthood – he didn't like that." Her head shook imperceptibly, bitterly. "He certainly didn't like to be reminded of where he came from. But _you_…" Mary almost cowered at the way she spoke, ready to be accused, "to be loved and cherished, so well protected by this family." Resting a hand on the bottom of the banister, Hester let that hang in the air for a moment before tilting her head to the side, almost intrigued. "Although, you must miss your dear Matthew - I hear he's with Robert on business…" Mary looked down at the ground and then back up – the accusation now out loud for all to hear. _My brother died mere months ago, yet you already have your eyes on Matthew Crawley_. Mary sighed; she didn't need Hester to make her feel guilty about that, she was doing a fine job herself. "If you would like me to leave, I have no qualms about-"

"No." Mary shook her head, resigned, as if by enduring the presence of such a venomous woman would be some sort of penance for her heart's infidelity. "No, you're family and you're the only link for the children to Richard and his side of the family. I don't doubt that you have many lovely stories yet to share with them, perhaps of Richard's childhood…"

"Not that many – he was always quite a solemn boy." Hester decided, abruptly; her mood having perked up at securing her stay for some time yet. "Maybe that's where it all went wrong."

But these constant allusions to Richard's suicide and the punishment awaiting him were harder to endure. Mary's face turned hard. "He was dying, Hester."

Hester blinked, surprised at the sudden burst of defiance but then seemed to be more amused by it than anything else. Mary tried not to look insulted, but soon Hester's eyes were on her once more. Those icy blue eyes which pierced the soul and could unlock all sorts of secrets. Richard's eyes. And therein, lied the reason behind Mary's growing reluctance to dismiss and defy the woman. There was _so_ much about Hester that was like her brother, the darker side of Richard which Mary often put to the back of her mind during their marriage. He hadn't got to the highest echelons of British society through hard work and sheer luck alone; there are dirty prices to be paid for success and wealth and fame and Richard had paid them in full. That veneer of steel, Richard had had it in spades and Hester did as well.

Hester Carlisle had the Crawleys concerned but had Mary scared. Richard's love for and loyalty to Mary meant his occasionally vicious nature was aimed elsewhere; she doubted that Hester would hesitate to destroy everything she held dear for personal gain. For now, Mary thought it unwise to aggravate the woman unnecessarily, that and it would take time before she could look into those eyes without being haunted by Richard.

"Aren't we all…" Hester offered noncommittally, reluctant to blink as if she knew the current sway she had over her sister-in-law. But before Mary could ponder on that too much, Hester's attention turned to the footman in the room; the younger woman grinded her teeth, as Hester clicked her fingers. "Well man, don't just stand there – have Gable bring the car around!"

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><p>Mary almost groaned at the look of anticipation her mother sent her – as well as the one of somehow bored interest from her grandmother – as she entered the dining room. She paused only a moment, before taking her seat.<p>

"Did you see Hester on her way out?" Cora inquired, cutting straight to the chase as she lay her napkin down on her lap.

"I did."

"Good," Cora said relieved, smiling in gratitude as Carson offered her sauce for her sea bass, "and you spoke with her about her leaving? I assume that you offered until the end of the week."

"Seeing as she was due to leave a fortnight ago," Violet said dryly, sipping her wine, "I would have thought an offer until noon would have sufficed."

Cora sighed inwardly at her mother-in-law's, of course, unreasonable suggestion, but she couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. That woman needed to go back to Scotland, preferably as soon as possible. She waited for her daughter's answer, but a feeling of unease settled over her as her eldest's eyes seemed to be trained on her plate. "Mary?" She asked cautiously, warningly.

Mary glanced up at her mother, her brow furrowed guiltily as it had done when she was a child. "It may be a little longer than that."

Cora sat back in her chair, aghast. This was the third time that Mary had proven incapable of sending Hester Carlisle packing. Violet merely raised her eyebrows, her eyes narrowing. "I don't understand, you've aimed that sharp tongue of yours at much less deserving targets - what has the Scotswoman done to deserve your clemency?

Mary rolled her eyes at that, but didn't argue with her grandmother. Granny had a point. Still, she went for defensive sarcasm. "Is it such an incredible notion that Richard's death may have given me a fresh perspective on what's truly important? Like family, for example."

"She is as much your flesh and blood as old Isis is over here," Violet said unsympathetically, jerking her head slightly to the old Labrador who sat in the corner where Carson stood; Isis' ears pricked up at hearing her name, "and frankly, given the choice, I think that I'd rather be related to-"

"Yes thank you, Mama." Cora interrupted, unwilling to stray down the path of insults. "Mary, you must see that she cannot stay here indefinitely."

"I know," Mary admitted, suddenly needing to sip from her glass of wine, "but I feel wretched simply-"

"Guilt." Violet said decidedly. "A Catholic specialty and Miss Carlisle seems to be laying it on thick." The old dowager put a hand up to silence any protests Mary might have. "I understand that you loved him, but it must be admitted that one of Richard's more irritating qualities, shall we say, was his ability to manipulate, no?"

Cora sighed impatiently; insulting Richard certainly wasn't going to persuade Mary of their case. "Mama, really-"

But Violet was unperturbed. "I think we've seen more than enough to know it's hereditary."

Yes, yes, Hester wasn't a very nice lady, Mary knew that. Did her family think she was blind? "I'm being played with and used; I'm aware of the fact." A look of reluctance settled on Mary's features; something was holding her back. Maybe it was guilt, but Hester was Richard's family, his _only_ family and it felt wrong to simply shut her out. "But she is trying with the children and…she reminds me of Richard. And all it took was some time for him to show his true colours."

"One should never be optimistic about the true colours of others, my dear." Violet advised, but knew it was a waste of effort to try to change her granddaughter's mind for now. When a Crawley's mind was set, there was no changing it; she could only hope Mary would see the error of her ways. Violet prayed the error's price wasn't too high. "But I don't doubt you'll find that out for yourself."

"Mary, I don't see why she needs to reveal those colours _here_." Cora tried, her palms already starting to sweat at the notion that this ghastly crude woman was to stay in her home for longer. "How am I supposed to entertain with Hester? She enjoys discussing money and debating who in the room is going to Hell – these aren't suitable topics for dinner!"

"Who's Hester?" Violet looked up, frowning.

Mary sighed; Granny's powers of remembrance were most definitely waning. "Miss Carlisle, Granny."

"But I thought her name was-"

"Helen, yes I know – it's not." Cora said sharply, beyond irritated that Mary had failed in her task.

Mary looked at her mother, apologetically. "She'll leave soon. She's rude but she isn't foolish; she understands who controls the purse strings now."

"Which is why I'm baffled as to how Hester is able to have influence over you." Cora tried one last time, losing her appetite, but knowing all of this was related to Mary's feelings about Richard somehow. "You have _nothing_ to prove."

"Don't I?" Mary snapped, her own impatience getting the better of her. She pinched the bridge of her nose and willed herself to remain calm. "No guest stays forever, Mama." She offered quietly.

Cora barked a laugh at that, tired of how Richard's death was determined to cast a permanent cloud over Downton. She glanced wryly at her mother-in-law: the permanent houseguest. "I won't hold my breath."

Both Mary's and Violet's lips pursed at the comment; the former, to prevent a smile, the latter, in annoyance. Violet sighed, looking across to Mary. "I do so sleep peacefully at night, knowing everyone in this house wishes me good health."

Cora rolled her eyes but said nothing. She waited a few moments for Mary's assurances of Hester's exit, if not this week then next, but it wasn't to be. "Well, that's that, then." She said, rather petulantly, already dreading having to explain this to Robert. Again, she paused; Violet looked intrigued, waiting for fireworks between the pair, but Mary stayed wisely quiet. Sighing resignedly, Cora went back to her plate.

"You are aware that she wants to take the children to Harrogate this Saturday next?" Cora complained, expecting some sort of a reaction, a voice belying, what she considered to be, Hester's audaciousness.

Reaching for her wine, Mary could feel her jaw clenching, her words coming out punctured and terse. "I am, yes."

Cora's nostrils flared at her daughter's dogged expression, but she stayed calm. "Fine, but your father has organised Peter's first shoot for then; she'll have to take them another day."

Mary's jaw dropped. She looked at her grandmother incredulously; Violet hid well whether or not she was privy to her son's plans. Mary shook her head, amazed. Here was the true crux of the problem. Her mother didn't care for how well _her_ children had taken to their aunt. It wasn't that Hester now had influence, it was that her influence caused the waning of her parents' influence. Her Mama was painting Hester as the impolite to the point of boorish sister-in-law, they all were and yet it was Hester who had the good manners to inquire if she could take the children to Harrogate, whilst Papa had organised for Peter's first shoot without so much as a mention.

A shoot? Mary considered, feeling her temper start to rise. Her father would be damned if he'd let little Peter go not properly dressed for the occasion which meant that he'd have sent for the tailor. Which meant that this had all been in the works for some time. She didn't even know why she was shocked anymore, so quick they were to take liberties. After all, Cora had employed the services of a violin teacher for Emily – if Emily was to get a stringed instrument, why shouldn't her six year old son be given an instrument with the means to kill? Who the hell did they think they were simply taking charge? This wasn't the flower show or some issue on the estate, these were her _children_ – Mary's and no one else's and grandparents had no right to simply make plans without the mother's consent or knowledge.

She glanced up at Carson for support, a stoic vision as always but Mary was sure one of his eyes twitched a bit. It was the old faithful butler who'd apprised – very objectively, of course – Mary of what was going on. Of how Master Peter was in the library with a Latin tutor and Miss Emily was nowhere to be found because Lady Grantham had decided to take her into the village. This was _her_ family! And to assume that Mary would simply acquiesce to her mother's plans – how presumptuous, how American, and Mary felt sick just looking at her. She'd come to accept that Matthew was the son her father had never had, but that wasn't what she wanted for Rabbit. She didn't want any of it. The gratitude for any support from her family was quickly being corroded and replaced with resentment and nostalgia for her life across the pond.

Mary shook her head in amazement at how the planned month stay at her old childhood home had turned into five. Five months, was that all? She'd felt like she'd aged twenty years. "My son's first shoot - I do appreciate being kept so well informed as to what _my_ son does," she said dryly, clipped; Cora looked up from her plate, perplexed at the problem. "If you can see to my children, then you can see to my sister-in-law."

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><p><em>13th March 1930.<em>

Settling back into his seat, Robert breathed an exhausted sigh at a job well done, as the station of York began to pass by their carriage window. "Well, I think we did rather well today, don't you?"

Matthew nodded at Robert, opposite him. "Quite." They'd gone into the city in order to buy the machinery needed to modernise the estate's farms and all came at a very reasonable price. Although, they hadn't bought as much as they had wanted; with the economy the way it was, it felt right to leave most money for a rainy day. However, instead of feeling a sense of achievement after their business dealings, both men were leaving York somewhat gloomy, the foreboding of the city seeping into the very fibres of their clothing. These were tough times, no doubt about that. "I feel like we almost robbed the man – his prices had dropped so."

"Yes, there's something certainly melancholic hanging in the air." Robert agreed, reluctantly. "As if the city is already lamenting the grandeur of what was and is anticipating the difficulties to come. I expect London is much the same. The Earl of Pembroke said the Lords are on edge, on edge because the Commons is on edge - regardless of all the mundane party politics -," He tried to joke wryly, before his mind wandered off somberly, "and Reggie never usually worries for that sort of thing. There's certainly cause for concern."

"Then," Matthew pondered, thinking back to Downton and Mary and why the estate had the means to buy anything, "I suppose we should thank God for Richard."

Robert raised his eyebrows, but didn't disagree, the corner of his mouth dragged up drily. "And his pots of money."

Having been privy to figures himself, even Matthew had to twitch his lips at that. "Hear, hear."

Sharing another amused look, Robert sighed again, thinking about what he was returning to. "I'm less thankful for his sister, however." He commented, almost petulantly, crossing his legs casually. "Cora and I assumed that she was only staying put to increase her share of Richard's – or should I say Dick's – estate, but now…" He pursed his lips nervously, "- she's playing a game, of what sort I'm unsure."

Matthew frowned, concerned to see the older man seemingly worried. "But she's not dangerous, surely?"

Looking at Matthew, Robert almost smiled at his naivety, the man's cynicism having fallen to wayside since Mary's return. "Richard was not dangerous solely because he loved my daughter – he couldn't help but be on our side. I would have hated to have had that man as my enemy." He said seriously, before sighing again, "Hester Carlisle, I don't know what she's after…"

And neither did Matthew. He didn't know anything about the woman. At first, Hester had been on the verge of rude and came across as rather idiotic, but by the end of the week, it became clearer that there was more to Hester Carlisle than met the eye. Matthew had no clue as to her agenda and frankly, he wasn't sure that he wanted to know. Peter seemed enthralled by her though. _She smells odd, but I like her stories. Did you know that Grandpa Mark was a pirate?_ Well, Hester lied – Matthew knew that much.

But Matthew found that he couldn't really care. Ever since Sybil had turned up and talked some sense into her, Mary had really come into her own. The funeral had been dreadful, of course, but she'd done well since then. She smiled more, he'd noticed that. He always did notice it when Mary smiled.

"Hmmm, Mary seems brighter."

"That she does," Robert smiled, happy to think of pleasanter things and grinning inwardly at where Matthew's mind was, "I believe that you've played a part in that." Matthew's eyes widened a little, but Robert put his hand up to assuage him. "It's alright. I'm not as blind as my wife and mother think I am – I've seen the changes in you both since Mary returned home." He held out his hands understandingly. "You love each other still."

Matthew nearly gulped. "We do."

"Yet you are to take no action?"

Matthew blinked at the direct question, having expected a rap on the knuckles for feeling about Mary as he did at such a time. And then he actually considered the question. Robert wanted him to do something about it. Was he insane? Richard shot himself a little over two months ago. Not only was iy wholly inappropriate, but it wasn't Robert's place to question him about the matter at all.

"Has his grave even been filled yet?" Matthew asked, feeling rather affronted.

"Alright," Robert admitted, seeing a flash of ire, "but you love each other and have done for nearly twenty years, so I take it that it's been agreed, when an acceptable amount of time has passed you'll…"

Matthew waited for him to say more, but evidently cousin Robert thought the rest was implied. "Reignite the old flame?" Matthew said, incredulous of what they were speaking. "You make it sound so simple."

"That's because it is."

Matthew looked at Robert hard, but the older man looked as comfortably certain as he ever did. His indignation wilted as he turned wistful."Is it? My mother believes I'm wasting my time, my life even, on your daughter. That whatever Mary and I share, it's…" He grimaced at the thought, but it had taken hold, "almost toxic in its nature. Here I am, a bachelor at forty-"

"Your birthday isn't for another month." Robert insisted, waving him off. Matthew smiled tiredly at his optimism. He'd had that once and he wondered, whether it was having the woman Robert loved by his side, which kept the Earl of Grantham with a far more youthful, hopeful view of life than he had.

It wasn't too late. He could still marry and have children, all with a woman who he hadn't shared a turbulent history with and a husband six feet under.

"…Mother wants me to pursue Georgina Litton." He rolled eyes at his very words, what a mummy's boy he must sound like.

"Yes, yes I remember." Robert recollected after a moment, sitting up straighter in his seat at the mention of another woman. "I'm afraid that I cannot offer you any advice without bias on that score. No woman is superior to my Mary." He said proudly, as if it were obvious. Another thought struck him."She's young, to be sure, but Mary never had any problems in that department. It was Richard who insisted they stop after Peter, he'd just had his fiftieth – anyone can see how pleased Mary is to have baby Imogen around-"

"I don't care for any of that." Matthew snapped, finally realizing what Robert was getting at and insulted at the presumption. "I'd happily die without any children of my own and leave the earldom to any Tom, Dick or Harry, if I could be with Mary."

Robert's eyes softened at the romance of it, but a smug smile still came across his face – that answered that. No Georgina Litton or any other woman could come close, so there was no point in trying. Matthew groaned at being caught out in such a way.

"Then, what is keeping you?"

Matthew almost clucked his tongue at the other's man relentless questions, but instead just pinched his nose tiredly. "…She needs more time to grieve-"

"I don't doubt it," Robert agreed calmly, feeling he was nearing the root of the issue, "but that is not what is holding you back."

Matthew's mouth opened to snap, but he closed it abruptly, huffing a sigh. Robert smirked slightly, the boy could get ever so flustered. Leaning forward in his seat, Matthew grimaced. "…I hate to paraphrase my mother _again_, but perhaps this isn't another chance for Mary and I. Perhaps all this has been only an infatuation, a chase." Robert's smirk was unwavering. Matthew gritted his teeth. "Perhaps the _idea_ of being with Mary is far more glorious than ever truly being with her would be."

Robert crossed his arms, unperturbed. "Do you really believe that?"

A small shrug, it hurt to admit it. "Our love hurt her marriage and has kept me from moving on with my life."

"Well, you two do seem to have the propensity to make each other miserable, I'll give you that." Robert replied; Matthew wondered at why the smirk was still there. "But you're both miserable, because you've been kept apart." Matthew nodded slightly at his words, but still looked…well, miserable. The smirk fading, Robert felt for the poor man. "When you were at war, when you came back wounded - I've never seen a woman love better or harder than Mary did, and all without the hope of you ever returning it." Matthew looked up at that, a little surprised, his memory drawn back to a time he'd tried to forget. When he'd been bound to a wheelchair – and when Mary had played the nursemaid. Unaware of his musings, Robert carried on. "Forgive me, if I think it all is so easily solved. You love her and she you, the children love you-"

Matthew raised an eyebrow, interrupting to correct him."Peter loves me-"

"And Emily will love you too." Robert insisted, determinedly. "She's very observant; she saw the spark between you two when her father was still alive and she didn't care for it, and rightly so. But she's a kind-hearted girl, though she tries not to show it, and Emmy is smart enough to see that you make her Mama happy. It'll be good enough for her," Robert smiled softly, clapping Matthew gently on the shoulder, "– it's good enough for me. You've spent almost half of your life in love with my daughter, you might as well see it through."

Matthew barked a laugh. That he had. And it wasn't ever going to change and he wasn't ever going to want anyone else. He might as well be happy – he might as well start now. And then he felt it. A lifting from his chest as something he hadn't felt in a long time took a firm hold. Hope. And it felt right. No, more than that - it felt like it was about bloody time. "Well, when you put it like that…"

* * *

><p>Slowly pushing the ajar door open further, Edith raised her eyebrows incredulously at the scene before her. Hester Carlisle, in <em>Mary's room<em>, with her hands rifling through a bedside cabinet. Edith shook her head as the older woman went on unknowingly. Finally, Miss Carlisle was revealing herself as the sneak that she really was. All these weeks of coy smiles and thinly veiled insults as if she were the silliest woman in the world, as if she were only here to comfort and couldn't help but make a bad job of it, as if she didn't have an ounce of intelligence and merely spouted pious rubbish, when in fact – well, in Edith's opinion, at least – she was nothing more or less than a crafty bitch.

Much love may or may not be lost between Edith and Mary. They snapped and chided, argued and insulted, they had wished each other ill, they had both done things that neither were proud of, but with age and wisdom came an unspoken agreement. That all sisterly disputes would be forgotten when someone _outside_ of the family decide to snap, chide or argue, when someone else wished a sister ill.

Edith didn't need to be a genius to see that Hester wanted to harm Mary in some way, and that just simply wasn't going to happen.

"If you're looking for Mary," Edith said, hiding a smirk as Hester whipped around, startled, "you should find her in the library…not in the drawer, I'm afraid."

Hester's shock at being caught in the act was too painfully obvious. Taking a moment, to be still her racing heart undoubtedly, Hester managed to choke out some words. "…the library, you say?"

Edith smiled thinly."She's penning a letter and you are…?" She drawled, questioningly, interested to see how the snake would worm her way out of this.

"Emily couldn't find her book." Hester said, licking her lips, that chirpy mask coming back into place, "I promised her that I'd search high and low, that I won't rest until I find it."

"Naturally." Edith commented, as she leant against the doorframe. "Do you have my sister's permission to ransack her room?"

"I'm not," Hester stopped; Edith felt that she could see the cogs turning, the reconsideration of her defence, "– I didn't think she'd mind. After all, Mary and I are sisters too."

"A sister minds most of all." Edith corrected her, struggling not to snarl at the woman. "Did you find it?" She almost laughed out loud at the question in Hester's eyes. She was drowning, having been caught so off guard. "Emmy's book?"

"No, no, I'm afraid not." Hester breathed, swallowing, eager to be gone. She stepped forward to leave. "Best check the nursery again."

"Is everything alright?" Both women turned as Sybil came casually to the door, bouncing her youngest on her hip. She frowned, not seeing Mary in the room and wondering as to their reason for being there.

"Yes, my niece – _our_ niece, I should say – has lost…" Hester's feigned cheerfulness dispersed as her eyes were drawn to the elder sister, Edith's eyes rolling, completely disbelieving. "It doesn't matter, it's not here."

"Oh but it does. You won't be resting until you find what you're looking for." Edith said, a tone holding no doubt. Hester's nostrils flared, but she chose to stay silent, keeping her cards close to her chest. The look they shared spoke volumes. Edith knew what Hester was about, knew what Hester could possibly be capable of and, most importantly, would do everything she could to stand in Hester's way.

Settling for a smile once more, Hester knew there was no point in trying to win over the relatives; they were all stubborn and rather mistrustful. Eager to quit the room lest Mary stumble across them, she marched out, only stopping to tickle Imogen's cheek and murmur, "such a bonnie baby."

Sybil nodded in absentminded thanks, but her eyes were trained on her sister, waiting patiently to speak until Hester had long left the room. "What did she really want?"

Edith heaved a sigh, mystified as to why Miss Carlisle – with a devious mind and nosy character to rival her brother's – was still staying at Downton. "That woman could not be less trustworthy."

Sybil grinned at that. "How long did it take you to reach that conclusion?"

* * *

><p>Mary's eyes flicked up briefly from her page, as she heard the library door creak open, a small frown furrowing her pretty brow as she saw it was Edith who was disturbing her solitude. Assuming her sister wanted nothing more than a book, she went back to her letter, her lips pursed as she reread her last line. A moment or two later, Mary blinked up in surprise as she felt her sister coming to hover beside her at their father's desk, Edith's fingers gently going to the lilies in the vase, a gesture from their Aunt Rosamund and a sorry excuse for not having attended the funeral.<p>

"Pretty…" Edith murmured before stepping back, unsure what to do with herself. Mary tried to continue, but couldn't, distracted. Her eyes looked up to Edith as she seemed to deliberate with herself for a moment. Mary raised an impatient eyebrow. "To whom are you writing?"

Her sister's attempt at nonchalance was certainly poor, but Mary decided to humour her. Edith couldn't care less about the letter; she visibly had something on her mind. Mary knew that look too well – her mother had entered her bedroom many times throughout the years with _that_ look. "You are becoming more and more like Mama each day," Mary commented, forcing away a smile as Edith blinked, offended, knowing Mary's words were meant as an insult, "and I am writing to Evelyn Napier. He sent a lovely letter extending his condolences, and I wanted to tell him how we all were."

"Evelyn Napier!" Edith blinked again, this time surprised. She shook her head slightly, caught up in the past, as she remembered how once upon time, Mary thought Mr. Napier to be her Perseus…and Matthew to be the sea monster. "He seems almost from another life now – I didn't know that you'd remained friends."

Edith's smile was fairly friendly and unassuming, but Mary wasn't really in the mood to entertain her sister by dawdling around whatever it was that she really wanted to say. Edith didn't give a fig about her sister's friends. After all that had happened in her life, especially in recent times, Mary was more and more sure that forced civility and feigned interest was a complete waste of time. Sighing, she put her pen down and turned to her sister face on. "Was there something you wanted?"

Edith's eyes hit the floor briefly, embarrassed at how quickly her ruse had come to an end. So much for simply slipping it into conversation. Standing up a little straighter, she met her sister's gaze again. "Why is she still here?"

It was, of course, the inevitable question, but Mary had hoped it was to be of something else. She sighed, tiredly scratching her forehead. "I shan't bother asking you to clarify as to which _she_ you mean…"

"As soon as she turned up here," Edith said determinedly, ignoring Mary's obvious reluctance to explore this topic further, "you couldn't wait for Hester to leave and now...?" She shrugged, waiting for Mary to fill in the blanks.

Mary's jaw clenched, almost affronted at the idea she had to explain herself at all. Mama's questions were fair; it was _her_ house. Edith only visited once or twice a week and had shown close to no interest in her sister's life in the last ten years, why should it concern her at all? Closing her eyes patiently, Mary decided to offer some explanation. "I do not wish to cut all ties with Richard's family by dismissing Hester like a servant; besides, the children like her -"

"Peter finds it impossible to dislike anybody; Emily thinks her comical." Edith interrupted bluntly, thinking her sister's reasons shamefully hollow. She leant forward, trying to impart the seriousness of the situation. "She knows something or, at least, she thinks she does and she is digging for proof."

"I see, Miss Marple," Mary snapped sarcastically, "and what do you think this _something_ is?"

Edith's nostrils flared at her sister's tone, a split moment spent on wondering why she was bothering, but the urge to protect was too strong. And she couldn't ignore the flicker of fear in her sister's eyes. Mary knew it, too. Hester wasn't here to grief and comfort, she had other plans. Biting the inside of her cheek, Edith leant forward further still, her voice dropping."Is there any chance that Richard spoke of…" Her eyes avoided her sister's gaze, "of the Turk to his sister?"

Mary raised an eyebrow, unsurprised by the question, the same thought having entered her own mind, and quite amused by her sister's concern. She supposed it was dreadfully salacious, having had an exotic lover who tragically died in their passionate embrace, but it wouldn't destroy her reputation by any means. At least not with her set. The most conservative aristocrats would probably blacklist her, but then again they had all done that when she'd married a middle-class businessman anyway, no matter how rich he was. It was coming to the point where Mary was having to remind herself that her lovers' tryst wasn't common knowledge – she'd spoken of it so often. "I find it terribly queer that you're whispering, seeing as it was _your_ meddling that saw to it that anyone outside the family knew about the Turk in the first place."

Edith held her breath at the accusation and the truth of it, but was relieved to see there was no real malice to her words or hurt in her tone. Mary was exasperated, yes, but she'd put behind her her sister's actions from all those years ago. In fact, Mary thought wryly, if their places had been reversed, she was quite sure that she'd have done the same. Still, she couldn't help but derive some satisfaction from Edith's need to justify herself. "I was naïve and spiteful. Does that satisfy you?"

"An apology would have been adequate." Mary shrugged carelessly; Edith simply rolled her eyes.

With a sour look, Mary went back to looking at her letter, but Edith couldn't ignore the rigidity to her shoulders or the terseness of her words. That fear in her sister's eyes was still flickering away."You seem frightened."

Mary's head shot up, those three words catching her attention more than anything else her sister had said. A dark look passed across her face, affronted didn't come close. "I am _not_ frightened of Hester Carlisle." Each word punctured the air clearly.

A lesser woman would have cowered at Mary's tone, but Edith was not to be deterred, having been on the receiving end of it many times. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, her sister seemed to speak with conviction. But she was close to hitting the nail on the head. She pursed her lips, coming to the only logical conclusion she could think of, but not understanding it. "You're frightened of her leaving though."

Mary's silence was telling and her tongue hit the roof of her mouth to stop herself from squirming as smugness settled on Edith's features. She _was_ frightened of Hester leaving. Even though the woman could make Mary's skin crawl, her presence seemed preferable to the alternative. The alternative being she, alone, with the children and with her parents and grandmother. As it had been before Richard had returned, sick. Only now the prospect of Richard's return was an impossibility, or the threat of his return as far as her family were concerned. No one to stand in the way of Mary being absorbed into Downton once more, where Lord Grantham laid down the law and Lady Grantham did her best to enforce it.

It had been an estate that she had dreamed of inheriting for the entirety of her youth and still to this today had her heart, but Downton was slowly starting to resemble a prison, its walls closing in on her. As they had done when Richard was away, her family were treating her as the maiden she once was rather than the widow she was today. They were taking liberties, making decisions on her behalf, and worse still, making decisions on behalf of her children. The dust had settled after Richard's passing and the elder members of the family, at least, had decided it best to move forward by refusing to look back – no one mentioned Richard unless Mary or the children did. And it made Mary feel quite sick to the stomach.

Looking patiently back up at her sister, trying not to feel keenly the disadvantage of sitting down, Mary was honest, letting her irritation show. "Papa has had his tailor fit Peter for his first shoot and Mama has taken it upon herself to have a Mr. Laurence come to the house every Thursday and teach my daughter the violin."

A quirk of Edith's eyebrow and Mary thought for a moment that she had it, that she understood. But if her sister had, it was over in a flash. Mary searched her sister's expression for it again, but to no avail. Edith's life, so close to Downton, was already so intertwined with that of her family. Any presumptions on her parents' part were always dismissed as sweet gestures because Edith valued their interest, so eager she was to please. Edith wasn't exactly decisive and Anthony could be painfully indifferent, so the worlds of the Strallans and the Crawleys had merged happily. "Not the violin, Mary." Edith drawled, not truly understanding the turn in conversation. Mary let her eyes flutter closed with resigned acceptance, forcing down the disturbing dismay she felt at Edith not _getting_ it. "It'll be years before your ears stop bleeding; I've got Margo learning the piano instead."

Mary nodded slowly, opening her eyes again. She waited for more, but her sister had nothing else. Neither did she. She turned back to the desk. "Hester will leave when she's good and ready."

"Or when she has found what she is looking for." Edith insisted in a goading fashion as if she knew her dismissal was imminent.

"Edith," Mary started, ready to say something cutting, but stopped herself, motherhood having improved her patience. She sighed, not wanting to bicker. "Please leave. I wish to finish my letter in peace."

It was polite enough but it still stung, though Edith didn't show it. She was trying to help and Mary was throwing it in her face. Only, as often was the case with Mary, Edith knew there was more to it, that her sister was bottling something up inside. She stood, waiting, but Mary chose to ignore her and went back to her pen. Clenching her fists down by her sides, Edith pondered why she bothered to care at all, but knowing she couldn't not. Yet, their wires were perpetually crossed. They had been ever since childhood when their father and Cousin James had mentioned in passing that Mary and Patrick were promised to one another. So many things unspoken, if they just learned to talk and share – everything could be different. A true friendship, perhaps. But here they were again; Mary wasn't forthcoming and Edith was tired of guessing. Walking back to the door, she waited until Mary looked up to check she was leaving. Their eyes met and Edith held her hands out desperately, wanting her sister to know that she'd given it her best shot. "I never understand you and you never explain yourself."

* * *

><p>Mary narrowed her eyes as she watched the scene before her, her sister-in-law attempting croquet with Peter and Emily on the lawn. There seemed to be smiles all round. Her son loved any sort of game and Emily loved any sort of game where she could win; even Hester was enjoying herself. Then again, Mary thought shrewdly, the woman's eyes did seem drawn regularly to the front window where Mary stood – Hester knew she was being watched and undoubtedly smiled wider because of it.<p>

Mary's eyes were quickly diverted, however as she noticed a car driving up; her father was back. She wasn't surprised to see Matthew get out with him, invited up for dinner no doubt. They, too, seemed in an excellent mood, no doubt their business had gone well, not that Mary was ever really told what their estate business was about. She stepped back from the window and smiled somewhat wearily as Carson let them in, taking their hats and light coats. Robert's eyes lit up at seeing his daughter there to greet him, kissing her on the cheek."Do my eyes deceive me or is Miss Carlisle on the lawn playing with my grandchildren?"

His tone was playful, but his words still bristled her. "With _my_ children, yes." He blinked a little at her sharpness, but wisely chose to remain quiet. She sighed tiredly, apologetically. "Please, take it up with Mama. I've heard enough complaints."

Glancing amusedly at Matthew, Robert nodded acquiescently, deciding to greet his wife and mother. Matthew smiled, albeit somewhat timidly, uneager to provoke Mary further.

She could have glared at him for his wariness, but decided to be pleasant. "Did you find everything that you needed?"

"Yes, yes all our transactions were very successful. Your husband's money has been put to good use." Matthew nodded happily; Mary almost rolled her eyes at his vague words, but appreciated his mentioning of Richard. It was ironic really that the man who Richard disliked more than anyone else in the world was the only man in the house who spoke best of him. "Anything the matter?" Matthew asked casually, sensing her troubled mood. He came to stand by her at the window, curiously looking out to see what had caught her attention so. _Ah_. "Your father believes Hester is up to something."

"As does everyone." Mary said dispassionately, turning back to the window as well. "As do I."

"So," Matthew frowned, confused, "keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer?"

"Perhaps." Mary offered, watching as Hester patted Peter's head quite affectionately, in a matron-like fashion unlike her brother, but those resemblances…"There's so much of Richard about her. I'm pathetically hoping that she shares some of his finer qualities too."

"Why?"

Why? Now, there was a good question. In her day-to-day life in which there were suddenly more people in it with so many opinions and voices, why did she want one more in the mix? Of a woman who she knew that she didn't like, who Richard had never particularly cared for – a woman she knew to have ulterior motives? Maybe it was because, Hester's motives – however malicious they were or weren't – didn't get on her goat the way her family's interference in the lives of her children did. How dare they take it upon themselves to organise her children's lives without her consent. She wasn't a child anymore and Richard wasn't simply a beau who'd gone on to pastures new – he had been her husband, her keeper. Now, he was her late husband and Mary was in charge of her own life and destiny as well as her children. If her father didn't want to inform her about the goings-on with regards to Downton, that was his choice to make. Matthew was the heir and she'd made peace with that. It wasn't _her_ concern. Just as there was some things that weren't her family's concern. Mary clucked her tongue as it suddenly occurred to her that a date really needed to be set on when they were to leave. "Did Papa mention all his grand plans for Rabbit?"

Matthew's eyebrows rose at the sudden change of topic, but not for long, he'd heard – many times – of _what a thrill it shall be to take my boy on his first shoot_. Mary's heart fell that little bit more in love with him as his eyes filled with understanding. He nodded slowly. "Your parents are stepping on your toes."

"Yes, they are." She agreed pointlessly, raising a wry eyebrow. "Don't forget Granny, as well."

"Impossible."

Mary's eyes twinkled at Matthew as a ghost of a playful smile danced on his face, her mood lifting. The last few days had been trying, all her family determined to see Hester gone – and all griping to Mary about it. They all perceived Miss Carlisle to be a threat to the family, one that needed eradicating as soon as possible. But the Grantham household was forgetting who this woman was: Peter and Emily's aunt and Mary's sister-in-law. She was family and even though Mary could say categorically that she harbored no real affection for the woman, she'd learned over the years that family was everything.

More than that, Hester was the last tether that Mary had to her husband, proof to all – an uncomfortable proof for her family – that she had married a man named Richard Carlisle, whom she'd grown to love.

Any barbs from Hester – with those eyes – seemed to come from her husband himself and she couldn't fault the woman for some of her criticisms, particularly those pertaining to her relationship with Matthew. Mary was willing to take it, as if somehow it would help to atone her. Hester may try to discipline the children herself, but it was Mary's parents and grandmother, not Mary, who resented the woman's interfering most of all. Of course they would, they wanted to interfere themselves.

And even if her sister-in-law wasn't quite looking out for her interests, Hester cared more for Mary than for anyone else around the dining table. And, though it pained her to admit it, Mary took comfort from that. It had been many years since she'd had to do battle alone and she did not care for it. To be isolated, to be misunderstood, to be lonely as she was. It was true, what people said, that one never knows what one has until it is gone. Mary knew it to be true. The reassuring hand on her shoulder which felt so natural that she'd put it quite out of her mind was gone from her life, the opportunity to vent before bedtime, to tell a secret knowing it would never be repeated, to be bound so intimately to another – it was gone, he was gone. It felt right that another Carlisle should step up to the plate, her children too young to take their father's mantle. Hope had stuck its claws in Mary like never before, that somehow she could repair the damage to Richard's relationship with his sister by fostering one of her own, one that could last a lifetime. After everything she'd experienced so far this year, hope was all she had.

"I need someone fighting my corner." Mary admitted quietly, her breathing quite shallow. "I suppose it's a cross that widows have to bear: still needing another." She didn't dare look at him, to see pity – that was not what she wanted. Mary sighed, shakily. "Hester's poisonous – I can feel it, but…I thought that of Richard once…"

Matthew lowered his eyes to the ground as she trailed off, saddened at how hopeful she sounded. Usually, such blind optimism in Mary would cause him to rejoice, but not now, not when it was nothing but a false hope. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, looking at her hard. "Hester is doing her utmost to persuade you, to intimidate you, to manipulate you and it _is _starting to work_. _I know that you know that."

She was placing her trust in the wrong person and it pained Matthew to see that Mary _knew_ it. She knew that trusting that woman was an error in judgment. Yet, she was going to do it anyway, because, in her grief, she felt alone. To be alone was bearable when one had no other experience, but Mary's company was cruelly snatched from her. Her family, try as they might, didn't understand; they wanted to help her move on and build a new life for herself and the children, here, at Downton.

But it was too soon for a new life, surely they saw that. Any ideas of selfishly throwing all caution to the wind and following through on Robert's advice were put quickly to bed. Hell, Matthew thought, here Mary was clinging on to a stranger for the mere fact that she was Richard's sister – clearly, she wasn't ready to let her husband go.

"I might deserve it." Mary observed. Matthew looked at her sharply, warning in his eyes. It wasn't wise to go down that path. After Lavinia, Matthew had chosen guilt and it didn't lead anywhere, wasn't his own life proof enough of that? Mary held up her hands defensively at how stern he looked, a small smile coming upon her face. "I'm not indulging in self-pity - it was merely a thought."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, unconvinced, but let it go. Her amused expression assuaging his fears somewhat. She'd be alright, eventually, and that wasn't a false hope at all. "That corner of yours," He drawled casually, smirking as she then, too, narrowed her eyes, suspiciously, "I'll fight in it – I'll _always_ fight in it."

Mary paused a beat, mentally driving away the blush from her face, before nodding slowly in thanks. Matthew had tried to keep his tone light, but as was often the case with Matthew, his eyes gave it all away, belying his seriousness. He'd look out for her, look after her – love her, if she let him. It wasn't a grand proposal of any kind, but it was an honest promise to _always_ be there.

Smiling shyly, Mary faced the window again, blinking a little as her eyes met Hester's, how long the woman had been staring at the pair of them, Mary wasn't sure. Obviously, Hester couldn't have heard a word of what was said, but still, Mary felt as if her mind was being searched and her soul was on display, Hester's eyes piercing her at every point. A chill ran up Mary's spine and, not for the first time since her life had recently spun out of control, she found herself wishing that she would use her logic a little more. Mary swallowed, as Hester raised a eyebrow, one of greeting. As if the fox had spotted the hare.

"Well, I dearly hope that you won't have to."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

**Please review, much appreciated!**


	11. Chapter 11

Hello again! 200 reviews! So exciting and thank you so much, your feedback is more useful than you probably realise. Sorry, it's taken me so long to update and I'll try to be a bit quicker without future updates, but it's not as if this archive is short of amazing fics, just took a gander at some. Mary/Matthew will always have my heart, but sierrac's Haxby In The Afternoon has me wanting Mary and Richard to end up together, which is definitely down to fab writing because I never want that when I'm watching the series!

Anyway, please keep reviewing and enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11:<strong>

_21st March 1930._

Reclining back, Mary breathed in the night air, deeply. Heavenly. There was something wonderful about this evening. For the middle of March, it had been remarkably warm, the sun had lingered on the horizon, and there was barely a chill in the air. It was simply lovely. Lovely enough to wear only a light summer coat outside. Of course, Mary's contentment was helped along by the tumbler of gin in one hand, leaving her insides delightfully fuzzy and her eyes heavy-lidded, and the calming cigarette in the other, Cora finally having banned her from smoking indoors.

If she were alone, this might have painted a rather pathetic picture, but fortunately Sybil had indulged Mary's whims as the older generations begged off and went to bed. Sipping from her own glass, Sybil smiled lazily from the garden chair opposite, sitting in a most unladylike fashion, having slid down the chair during the evening. They'd certainly had a giggle.

Today, Edith had finally informed Mary of Hester's snooping. That certainly had caught Mary's attention, not realising her sister-in-law would be so quick to sink so low. A braver woman would have confronted Hester outright and demanded her immediate exit, but still rattled by everything that had happened, Mary didn't particularly feel like being brave for anyone at the moment. She was sure Hester would defend her actions - by lying, naturally - and Mary hadn't quite decided what she would do in such a situation. Thus, as after-dinner drinks started to wind down, she, on impulse, decided it would be far easier and leave her in little doubt of Hester's character if she were to catch Miss Carlisle red-handed. Not to mention a little more exciting.

She knew that nothing would come of it, but it took her mind off other things and it was certainly an _interesting_ way to spend her last night with Sybil before her younger sister returned to London and her hospital for the first time since having Imogen. Where they sat outside gave them a perfect view of both Mary's room and the library - the only two rooms which Mary assumed Hester to be interested in - and there, they set up camp. Waiting until their parents, Granny and Hester had gone to bed, they moved the garden chairs and lit a few candles, feeling quite the daredevils. Carson was good enough to leave them with a bottle of red and a few blankets before, too, bidding them a goodnight.

However, the ladies were not alone. Tom had left them to their sisterly chatter for a while, but bored of waiting for Sybil to retire, eventually joined them - hence the gin. Mary wouldn't ever be able to forget that Tom once took orders from her - she still had a habit of being quite demanding of him, which he took in fairly good stride - but despite all her reservations, she'd grown to like the man. She didn't appreciate the deception he'd pulled, how he'd forgotten his place, but how could she continue to dislike someone who had made her darling Sybil so very happy? Anyway, with her own record, Mary felt holding a grudge would be rather unfair, glass houses and all that. It certainly wasn't hard to like Tom. Thomas Branson could be a little too forward for the aristocrats, but he'd won Mary over with his sense of humour; a witty man, he often left her in stitches. Anthony Strallan, as kind and generous as he indeed was, could never pull that off. And, to her Papa's consternation at first, Tom had become a relative success since leaving service. After whisking Sybil off to Dublin, where he started out as a rather lowly journalist, he'd managed to work his way up the ladder before acquiring a position with a respectable newspaper in London. Having left his last position at Christmas, he'd just been offered the job of political analyst for another spreadsheet. Sybil, Tom and their girls weren't living the luxurious lives of the Granthams or Mary or even Edith, but they had built quite a life together.

Together being the operative word, and Mary found herself envious of it. Millions in the bank and she hadn't earned a penny; in the wake of Richard's death, it left a bitter after-taste.

Then again, it might be the gin. But if it was, then Mary was in good company.

The last companion around the garden table, laughing as he spoke with Tom, a cigar in one hand and his face looking awfully young thanks to the alcohol was Matthew. He and his mother had been invited up for dinner to send Sybil off - Edith having said her goodbyes that afternoon - and Robert had more or less demanded he stay for drinks. Whilst the girls' father had come to accept Tom, it was harder to forget than forgive. Surrounded by others, Robert found conversation with the man smooth, quite often pleasant - Tom _was_ amusing - but alone, with a brandy and a cigar after dinner reminded the Earl of times when they had last been alone. When Robert had been in the back of the motor and Branson had been driving it. Socialising with one's employee was always going to be a little awkward - even if now he was one's son-in-law instead. Matthew was Robert's saving grace and stayed on for drinks, as well as to discuss some matters of business . Walking back through the great hall, he'd espied out of window Sybil, howling in laughter, her husband grinning from ear to ear beside her at something someone else had said. Moving closer, he'd seen that it was Mary who was the someone else. Enough said, he went out to investigate.

And so, hours later, covered in darkness, barring the lights from the nearby drawing room and a few flickering candles, the four sat talking about everything and nothing. Hester forgotten long ago.

"I cannot believe it's going to be our little Peter's first shoot tomorrow," Sybil brought up, a grin on her face, clearly waiting for Mary to cry at the thought of it, " – Papa must be as pleased as Punch."

"I imagine so," Mary snorted, her feminine sensibilities having disappeared after her half of the wine bottle, "and now Emily – after all her whining – has managed to convince Papa to take her out too."

Mary pursed her lips, taking another drag from her cigarette. Sybil said nothing, her eyes only narrowing imperceptibly, having given up a week ago to try to get her sister to stop. Mary couldn't hide the beginnings of an anxious frown.

Sybil shook her head, amused. "You needn't look so worried."

"Need I not?" Mary questioned, her retort without any real bite. "The last member of my family to hold a gun ended up shooting himself, forgive me for not being thrilled at the prospect of my children holding loaded double-barrelled shotguns."

Her tone was dry, but it still put a stop to Matthew and Tom's own talk. Sybil let the joke slide, knowing sarcasm was often her sister's way of dealing with things, Matthew thought it in poor taste but never showed it, and Tom did his best to hide a smirk, his humour much like Mary's. Tom shrugged, nonchalantly. "Well, hopefully they'll take after their father."

Mary blinked. "Excuse me?"

Tom frowned a little, hazily hearing his response in its context. "Oh no, I meant – he was right on the money with _that_ shot, yes – but usually the chances of that man hitting anything…" He trailed off, that smirk threatening its appearance once more, "well, it was like trying to get a camel through the eye of a needle. Let's hope both of the wee ones are bad shots and decide to give up."

Mary raised an eyebrow in understanding: Richard was a rotten marksman. How could she forget about that? This time, it was Matthew's turn to snort. "_Give up_? Tom, how long have you been in this family?"

"I'm sure Richard shot down a few pheasants in his time." Sybil said diplomatically.

Mary narrowed her eyes in remembrance. "No, no, your husband's right – he used to get all flustered about it and then Granny would mock him so." Her eyes lit up and a smile graced her face as one memory came to the forefront. "Although I do remember one bird. It was our last week at Haxby so Richard insisted the cook prepare it for dinner." She sipped her drink, pausing subtlety for the punch line. "It had so many holes in it - she was forced to make pâté."

Everyone being fairly inebriated, they were sure to laugh whatever, but Mary's joke had all chuckling for a minute or so, before a comfortable silence fell over the group. The evening was naturally coming to an end, and Sybil was saddened by it. Just when Mary was finally starting to resemble her old self. Not simply herself when Richard was alive, but how she was before _everything_. When Mary was a pretty young thing starting the season, when life seemed so much simpler, when the idea of marrying cousin Patrick seemed so far away and Sybil was still young enough to be completely in awe of her.

"I'll be sad to miss out on all the fun, but London awaits." Sybil complained, before glancing at her sister, a wicked gleam in her eye. "I shall leave you to our beloved family and the _iniquitous_ _Miss Carlisle_."

The grand drawl to Sybil's tone indicated to Mary that someone had been gossiping, _again_. She rolled her eyes. "You've been speaking to Mama, or Granny," The corner of her mouth pulled reluctantly as she stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray by her feet, "or Edith come to think of it."

Sybil barked a laugh. "Need I remind you _why_ we are in the garden this late?" Mary didn't bother to reply; Sybil was happy to answer. "You said that it was the prime position to see if the lights were possibly switched on in your room or in the library, because – and I quote – you want to catch Hester in the act."

Matthew blinked, having thought this was all an innocent drinking session - what family drama was ensuing this time? "Act of what?"

"Putting her nose where it isn't wanted," Sybil said with conviction, staring at her sister hard before dragging her gaze to Matthew's " – Edith walked in on Hester poking around in Mary's room."

His eyes widened, his good humour forgotten. "And she's still staying under this roof? Mary!"

Mary near huffed at being scolded like a child, but bit her tongue. She shrugged defensively. "If it's any consolation, she hasn't tried anything tonight. Hester seems to be tiring of it all, I expect that she'll announce her departure presently – then we can go back to being barely cordial relations." She finished wryly, holding her glass out for Tom to refill.

Tom obliged and Matthew turned to him, incredulous that he was the only one surprised. Matthew sighed; of course, Sybil had already apprised her husband of what was going on. Why was that a bitter pill to swallow? Tom shrugged, looking somewhat sheepish under Matthew's half-hearted glare. "They were here to spy and I brought the gin."

"I've always liked you, Tom." Mary smiled wryly, raising her glass in a salute to the man. Tom raised a sceptical eyebrow, as did Sybil. Matthew hide his smile in his own glass. It was hard to stay mad at Mary for long, especially when he was edging towards being three sheets to the wind. Here she was, outside, swigging gin, laughing and chatting, her voice carrying on the wind: she made a terrible spy. Mary clucked her tongue, offended at the doubtful looks from her sister and brother-in-law, despite them being extremely warranted. She shrugged a little, her voice falling to a petulant murmur. "He _was_ an excellent chauffeur."

Tom tilted his head in agreement and Sybil laughed, her laugh though soon turning into a yawn. "Time for bed, I think." Sybil got up tiredly, downing the rest of her glass, and holding a steady hand out for her sister. Standing Mary up, she kissed her cheek fondly. "Don't bother sending us off tomorrow; we're catching the earliest train. I suppose that I'll be seeing you soon – we shall have to spend another night dancing in Mayfair." Matthew's ears pricked up at that, but he stayed quiet, contemplating his cigar as Mary shared a moment with her baby sister. Sybil's hands still holding her sisters, she squeezed them gently. "You'll be alright, you know."

To anyone else, it may have sounded assuming and not at all that helpful, but Mary knew her sister was trying to sound nonchalant in company, respecting her older sister's derision of public emotion. Her words, however simple, meant one thing. That Sybil had faith in her, faith that she would be just fine. Still, Mary couldn't let such a remark go without comment; she raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Is that your professional opinion?"

Rising to the bait, Sybil came out straight with the truth, making Mary squirm."It's rather more to do with the fact that you're the strongest person I know. If anyone can brave a storm like this, you can."

"Are you sure that you won't consider psychiatry?" Mary asked flippantly, having received her share of pep talks - God, she'd picked up too many American turns of phrase - from her sister during the last few weeks. "Me, a storm-braver?"

"Unquestionably."

Both ladies turned, surprised to hear Matthew's voice. His eyes, of course, were only for Mary, the certainty in his voice shaking her to the core. Screwing the cap back on his best gin, Tom clamped his lips together to prevent a grin, sharing a look with his wife. The corners of Sybil's twitched in return. Yes, Mary would brave the storm, how could she not when Matthew was by her side with the ruddy umbrella?

To hide her blush, Mary turned back to her sister and threw her arms around her. "Thank you - for everything." She whispered, squeezing the smaller woman sincerely, before pulling back."Give those darling little nieces of mine more kisses from me." Letting her sister go to say goodbye to Matthew, Mary stepped forward, giving her brother-in-law a kiss on the cheek, rare in its affection. "Goodnight, Tom – thanks for the gin."

Sharing a wry grin, he pushed the bottle into her hand. Mary went to refuse him, but he didn't budge, giving it back and winking, his meaning clear. _You'll be needing this more than me_. "My pleasure, 'night." Dear Tom couldn't stop the last subservient nod of the head, having not quite shaken off the past.

Sighing, Mary watched the pair go fondly, hand-in-hand, before she reclaimed her seat. She tried to ignore the eyes she knew to be trained on her, but after a minute or so, it was simply too difficult.

"What?" She turned abruptly to startle him.

Matthew didn't even blink, his eyes narrowed, remembering Sybil's words. "Are you going to London?" He said, biting the bullet and asking her directly. "To live?"

He didn't seem upset or hurt. In fact, he didn't seem anything, his face a mask. Still, guilt start to stir within her and she berated herself for feeling it. "Well, this was only ever temporary," She said, avoiding his gaze and falling back on irony once more, "but my husband got sick and died so my plans went awry."

Matthew sighed and she could feel rather than see him close his own eyes tiredly. "Mary, don't-"

"I cannot stay here, Matthew." She insisted firmly, not really knowing what he planned to say. Not to leave, not to be so flippant - she wasn't sure she wanted to know. "I do love Yorkshire but living here, with my parents and my grandmother…" She shook her head amused, hoping he'd see what she meant, "- that's not a life, it's a farce. When Prudentius wrote that patience was a virtue, he did not take into account my family."

He smiled briefly at her joke, but it didn't reach his eyes, an attempt at civility as he pieced his thoughts together. Putting his cigar out on the ground beside him, he sighed."...The dust will settle when Hester leaves-"

"_When Hester leaves_ – Matthew, no." Mary said, again firm, not wanting him to get a foothold, come up with sound reasons as to why she should stay. "Don't you see? Everybody dislikes Hester, but why? She's too Scottish, she's too Catholic, she wears too much jewellery – please, it's all a façade!" Mary smiled humourlessly, thinking of all the things everyone - particularly her grandmother - had callously said about Hester. "They want her gone-"

"With good reason!" Matthew snapped, irritated by Mary's interruptions and sick of her defending the woman. Hester had been caught rifling in Mary's room, for God's sake! "She's conceited, insincere and apparently considers herself to be rather light-fingered-"

"And all of that may be true, but my family want Hester out of this house because they think _she_ is responsible for all this, for how I feel, for holding me back - it's not true!" Matthew's brow furrowed, not understanding. Mary sighed, pinching the bridge of nose and desperately wanting to articulate it right. It would seem neither of them were particularly skilled with language after a few drinks. She took a steadying breath, letting her voice be calm. "How can I act as if my late husband never even existed if his sister is sleeping down the hall?"

Matthew's frown stayed put, but Mary caught the recognition in his eyes. He saw it. How her family had stopped speaking of Richard, how they acted as if Mary and the children had always been living at Downton. He'd supposed that the Crawleys had thought it best to establish a sense of normalcy and to move forward - it was not good to dwell on the past. But there was a difference between dwelling on it and erasing it altogether.

He shook his head tiredly. "I don't think that's what your family wants…"

But Mary shook her head harder, knowing what she said to be true."I'm in my old room; my feelings on matters are disregarded as if I am still dependant on my father; my parents treat my children as their own, neglecting to ask my permission for _anything_…" She bit her lip, as her last words came out choked. The bickering, the vying for power - it was fine as a child, as a young woman who knew no different, but Mary had been the mistress of her own house, had a family of her own. She couldn't continue as she once had. She blew a breath, forcing her eyes to clear. "You speak of the dust settling, but I feel like they are all trying to rewind the clock. If there is only one thing that I have learned during my life, it is that you _cannot_ go back, no matter how much you might want to." She shrugged sadly, her eyes begging him to understand her and her words having so much meaning, alluding to so much history between them. "I'm unhappy here, Matthew, and it has _nothing_ to do with Hester Carlisle."

"_Unhappy_…" He repeated the word, almost breathlessly. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Everything she'd been through was horrible, undoubtedly, but God forgive him he'd savoured these last few months with her, even when their relationship was tricky. Of course, Mary had been often miserable, but what she spoke of - it had, as she said, nothing to do with Hester or Richard, but with her family, with Downton, with _him_. After his talk with Robert on the train back from York, he'd allowed himself to hope that perhaps they could slowly build the foundations for a new beginning, that Mary would start to let go of all the hurt and guilt and that they could explore what they had. The love that had rather plagued their lives could finally be given a chance to blossom. But, seemingly, she didn't want that. Mary wanted _out_, out of Downton. And he'd be left here, again. He didn't know what to say - there were no words. "You want to...you can't -" He coughed awkwardly, his voice horse. His nostrils flared, keeping the tears at bay. "..._Don't_."

Mary sighed unhappily, looking up at the night sky, willing herself to ignore the pull on her heartstrings. He couldn't do this, it wasn't fair. Her life, the lives of her children, had been turned so irrevocably upside down, whatever he was hoping for...didn't he see it was impossible for now? She needed to get away, to start afresh, realise how to live without Richard before she could even begin to conceive being with another man. She couldn't rebuild her life at Downton. Here, her life was stagnating. He _had_ to understand. "When I married Richard, I was so bitter and yearned to forget," She didn't need to elaborate on what, and instead leant forward grasping a hand in hers. "I ran away from this house and this life and I'd married a man who was more than happy to drag me away. We had Haxby, but it was too close for comfort so we spent most of our time in London, and then we moved to Boston and then New York…" She took a moment. That had been her life. But now that life was over. This time, she couldn't help the tears which burst from her eyes and on to her cheek. "I'm not running anymore. I'm glad I came back. I've missed my family and _you_," She insisted, gripping his hand tightly as Matthew struggled to look anything other than heartbroken. "Depriving Emmy and Rabbit from all of this – I won't do that again. But the idea of spending the next twenty, even thirty years living with my mother makes me want to scream. " She broke out in a tearful grin and a smile tugged at his mouth reluctantly. "Farm shows and church committees are perhaps more suited to Edith; Sybil craves all the hustle of the city; I like a balance. I won't confine myself to London - Yorkshire's my home." She smiled with conviction. "I _will_ be back and my door, wherever I am, will always be open to you."

He nodded slowly, coming to terms with what she saying. Things wouldn't be like they were before; the ten years of separation never to be repeated. Things between them stood well and stood a chance. But it was bloody selfish of him to want to get on with his life with her, when she wasn't ready - not by a long shot. For the first time in her life, Mary was a woman of independent means who could do anything she wanted. She didn't have to answer to anyone. She could concentrate on being a good mother and then solely, on pleasing herself, on getting out of life what _she_ truly wanted. And for the sake of her very soul, she couldn't give that up just yet, even if Matthew was her greatest love. And, he understood.

"You're leaving…"

She nodded at his quiet acceptance, her mouth shut to stop her from sobbing, feeling the start of a headache from all the emotions and the gin. Mary squeezed her eyes shut, let go of his hand and leant forward further still to fling her arms around his neck."Matthew, I…" She whispered, her lips wet on his cheek, "- it doesn't change anything."

She still loved him.

Putting a gentle hand to her hair, he places a few lovingly chaste kisses on her cheek and temple before pulling back and wiping the tears from her eyes. He shook his head, rolling his eyes at the pair of them. For two people in love, they really needed to learn how to be happier. She grinned thankfully, even ruefully. Matthew held her chin gently, and gazed at her. Everything would be alright. He understood. It still hurt, but he _understood_. Mary waited for some words of comfort, but none came, and she was oddly pleased for it. He pouted, before huffing an exhausted sigh. Drinking into the small hours of the morning was for the young and it was beyond him, beyond them both, now. She closed her eyes contently as he pressed his lips gently, but firmly, against hers. Pulling back, Matthew had only a resigned smile on his handsome face. What a night. "Pass me the bottle, would you?"

* * *

><p><em>22nd March 1930<em>

"There, my boy," Robert smiled turning to his young companion, who appeared as bewildered as ever, Nicholas still firmly tucked under his arm, "that wasn't too bad, was it?"

Matthew had to turn his snort into a cough; Robert had to be joking, surely. It'd been awful. After yesterday's sunshine, the clouds had come in and had been spitting since early morning. Everyone was fairly cold, but being miserable hadn't been a certainty. That was until Peter had learnt that he was going to have to use a gun. A nervous boy of almost six, the sounds of gunshots were too much for the little fellow and he was too young to hold a gun by himself, anyway. The crackling of the bullet as it blasted its way forward, reverberating all around and scattering the birds - it was a familiar sound. The last time he'd heard it, he'd been soon told after that his father had died. No one had made that connection, however, and Peter wasn't one to offer something like that up. Instead, he'd spent most of the day shivering, his hands over his ears and shaking his head each time his grandfather tried to involve him further.

Now, having reached the end of the second drive, Peter could finally breathe a sigh of relief as he saw Granny Violet and Grandmama waiting for the relatively small party until a sweet pavilion, drinking tea, dressed warm, with Carson standing by. That was much more like it.

Emily, meanwhile, had no qualms about snorting at her grandfather's assessment. "How is Peter going to shoot a bird if he can't even lift the gun?"

Robert rolled his eyes, but didn't snap at the girl. Despite Peter being very young, sheer desire went a long way and it was clear that the boy just wasn't interested. He'd only just managed to convince his grandson to hold the shotgun; Peter had yet to fire a single shot.

"You said they weren't birds!" Peter said, eyes widening with concern, having trusted his grandfather implicitly. Robert sighed; it'd been worth a shot, no pun intended.

"Well, what did you think they were?" Emily asked, bewildered by how gullible her brother could truly be. She turned to her grandfather, arms crossed, looking strikingly like her mother. Flashbacks of Mary's wry remarks as little Edith had screamed and wailed after being placed on a pony came hurtling back. "I don't know why you're bothering, Grandpapa."

"What if I hurt a bird, Matthew?" Peter asked his friend, still terrified. A look of resolution came across his young features. "We have to go look - Carson will help."

Matthew didn't doubt Carson would, but it wasn't the best use of the butler's time. He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You haven't." He assured him, staying truthful but skirting around the topic. "The birds don't need to be helped."

"Because they're beyond help," Emily supplied, not missing a beat. Peter frowned, confused; his sister sighed, exasperated. "The birds are dead, Peter."

Matthew blew a breath as the young boy whimpered at the very thought of it. Honest as always, but not particularly helpful - Emily had certainly been on good form all morning. Every mistake of Matthew's picked up on, every weakness of Peter's ridiculed - she wasn't in the best of moods and Matthew couldn't think as to why. He was surprised that she wasn't grinning from ear to ear; she was a natural. The gun was heavy, to be sure, but she'd seemed to take to it well, and a few shots had almost been on target. Downton would make a markswoman of her yet. But it didn't put a smile on her face, nothing much seemed to these days.

Richard's death, naturally, had been a terrible blow for the children. Peter had become even more sensitive in the aftermath, taking comfort in the warmth of his family and never wishing to be alone. But Emily was still somewhat closed off. She'd made her peace with Mary - or at least, they'd called a truce as they tried to find normality to their lives once more - and was giving everyone less back talk, which ultimately didn't amount to much, but it still often appeared to be an effort for Emily to be polite. That sense of betrayal she'd felt, the way the Crawleys had treated her father - it was an old wound, but it struggled to heal.

Sending his granddaughter a look that could only be described as pleading, Robert bent down to Peter's level, with a small grimace as his knees protested.

"Going on a shoot," He smiled, playfully pinching Peter's nose, "it's enjoyable - it's just sport."

"Which is arguably worse." Matthew muttered, never having enjoyed such country pursuits too much himself. Fishing for hours to only put the damn things back in the water was one thing, but packs of dogs tearing apart a fox to the sound of a horn, plucking pheasant after pheasant out of the sky with no intention of eating them, it all seemed a bit heartless to Matthew. Despite his years at Downton, he had been raised a city boy and his ego could admit that his lack of skill probably contributed to his dislike or indifference to such activities, but still - killing for sport? Matthew thought that he must be missing something, because he didn't really enjoy it at all. Yet, at Robert's unimpressed if slightly bemused glance, Matthew had the good grace to look sheepish, realising he wasn't helping matters.

Robert sighed, turning back to Peter, trying again."It teaches one how to operate a weapon, an invaluable skill."

"Why would Peter ever need to know that?" Emily smiled humourlessly, incredulously at such a thought. Guns were for soldiers, cowboys maybe, not for her little brother. Matthew's gaze softened towards the girl; so eager to act tough and mature, her words were a stark reminder of how young and ignorant she really was. He hadn't supposed he would ever use a gun when he'd been a boy either. Then, Matthew had grown up and had been unlucky enough to see the world catch fire. Captain Crawley hadn't only shot birds in his time. Sighing dramatically, not really understanding the look of understanding now passing between her grandfather and Matthew, Emily stepped forward to stand by her brother. "You forget that Peter's simply too good, Grandpapa."

Matthew raised an amused eyebrow, Emily's expression clearly conveying that she didn't think her statement to be a compliment. Robert frowned at his granddaughter's assertion. "When he's a man-"

"Peter won't change." Emily declared, her head held a little higher; _this_ she did think to be complimentary. Robert blinked at the interruption. "And he'll never hit anything, just as cousin Matthew will never hit anything either."

Matthew's smiling face soon turned affronted, not caring if he sounded petulant in his defence. "I shot down a few."

"I don't mind it, and I'll be rather good at it." Emily shrugged honestly, her attempt at cheering her grandfather up, disheartened by Peter's lack of interest. She sighed, far more heavily than a girl of her age should, taking in where they were and making a reluctant assessment. "Margo would probably be alright, too."

"You do have a natural flair for it." Robert admitted, hardly pleased by his granddaughter's attitude today but impressed by her talent. He nodded, seriously. "I've been very proud of you today."

Emily titled her head questioningly, no longer as quick to believe everything as she might have done a few months ago, but seemed to accept the Earl's words for truth. Irritation still flared though, as she caught his quick wistful glance towards her brother. The attention _always_ on her brother. Her eyes narrowed. "Peter would have made you prouder."

Peter gulped a little. He wasn't one for arguments and he couldn't believe his sister was trying to pick one with Grandpapa. Grandparents loved all their grandchildren the same, didn't they? Or they should do and for a moment, the boy wondered what Emily was seeing that he wasn't. He watched warily, as Grandpapa seemed to almost jolt backwards, surprised by his granddaughter's words, grieved by her matter-of-fact tone. Tugging on his sister's arm anxiously, Peter wished to put a stop to whatever was brewing. Emily turned to her brother, pulling her arm away, with an annoyed frown. "Emmy, do you think Mrs. Patmore made scones?" He tried, gesturing towards the pavilion and Grandmama's beckoning smile.

The frown didn't leave Emily's face. She wasn't very hungry and she didn't care for the distraction. Peter glanced a little desperately at his grandfather, but he, too, seemed absorbed by what Emily had said. Matthew sighed inwardly. "I'm sure of it." He nodded smiling, encouraging Peter to join the women and Carson. "You go join your grandmother." Peter looked at his mentor, unconvinced but another encouraging smile and another nod to go on was all he needed to be convinced. Peter trusted Matthew; he trusted everybody he liked. And no more needed to be said for him to carry Nicholas off to the warm embrace of Grandmama and a platter made for a sweet-tooth.

Robert watched his grandson happily go off and made a silent prayer for Emily to somehow regain her spirits. She'd been so happy to be back at Downton. She thrived on it, just as Mary had. But, like her mother, Richard's death had changed things. Downton was no longer treated like paradise, but as something that had to be endured. Feelings towards her inhabitants had also grown frostier. Robert wasn't a fool; he already knew that his eldest daughter had made inquiries about London schools, that she undoubtedly planned to open up her Kensington house once more. And he didn't understand it, when he and all the family were trying so hard. What had this whole shoot been in aid of, if not to convince Mary and the children that living at Downton could be all they ever needed? Instead, Mary had begged off, feigning tiredness, letting her father take them down for the shoot alone. Didn't she care? It certainly didn't appear so. But over the years, Robert had learned that his daughter's seeming indifference and insolence was a cry for attention, a question put to him: did _he_ care? It seemed that dear Emily was the same.

He ached to scold her - this insolence had gone on for too long and he firmly believed that, whilst grief must be embraced and allowed its moment, it could not be used as an excuse for rudeness or laziness or any other faults of character. But he didn't. Because Robert couldn't even begin to imagine what losing a father at such a young age - and in such tragic circumstances - was like. She was a daughter and daughters depended on their fathers so.

Peter was a boy, happy-go-lucky, not ready to dwell on death, but Emily clearly shared those feminine sensibilities, still terribly affected by it all. Robert thought it and Matthew knew that that was what Robert was thinking. Matthew said nothing, as the Earl took his granddaughter's hand delicately in his own, but his eyebrow quirked, just envisioning what the older gentleman was going to say. He understood that Robert was older, his view on life and the word more traditional than his own, but that shouldn't stop the aging Earl from learning from past mistakes. What of the last generation! Lord Grantham had his moral code, his fair judgment, but he used it unfairly so. He had taught his daughters well. As a young lady, he'd inquired Mary as to her opinions on matters of the estate, had tutors provide rather 'masculine' syllabuses with the sciences and the classics included; Robert had seen Mary's intelligence and encouraged it. But, in his encouragement, he'd also encouraged his daughter to wish for more, when there was no point of her doing so. He'd prized her ambitious nature and her sharp mind, for Mary to be the best person she could be, but her father had wanted nothing more or less than for her to settle, taking her place as the next Countess of Grantham, not by right, but by marriage. He'd encouraged Mary to hope. But, with Mary's hopes having nowhere to go, naturally she became disillusioned and embittered and adopted all the character defects that came with that.

Then, Matthew took his place as heir. A man who had had no such encouragement, who hadn't asked for any of this, and yet took up the mantle so well, that Robert was more than happy to be his champion. At last, Robert's efforts were no longer in vain. Despite his love for and his pride of his daughters as well as his quiet concerns as to how unfair the world could be on the fairer sex, the achievements of a man - of a son - well, they were a little different, weren't they?

The girls knew that their father's mind ticked like that. Edith thought it fairly natural and was used to playing second, if not third, fiddle in the family anyway; Sybil couldn't stomach such an archaic way of thinking, but took comfort in the fact that the world was changing and her big heart could love her dear Papa despite his faults; and Mary...for all her sarcastic, conceited and just plain rude bullshit, Matthew thought heatedly, to even wonder that her father might find her lacking - it cut her deeply.

And that frankly angered Matthew to no end, because he knew that Mary would always slightly resent himself, as well as her father, for that. For being the heir, for being the son that Robert had never had, for being able to be the child that she could not.

Mary had never wanted her children to ever feel like that. The fact that Emily was a girl, the idea that she may not be capable of doing the same things as her brother, never even entered the equation; it was why she'd fought so hard for her daughter to go to school and, for the most part, Richard had allowed her to parent as she wished. Knowing Mary's feelings on the matter, he'd even seen to split his inheritance between the children equally. Emily did all the things Peter did - which was why the idea of Grandpapa taking Peter out for his first shoot and not inviting his eldest granddaughter was so foreign and abhorrent to the young girl. But Peter, so kind and eager to please - beloved by all as Matthew had come to be - was the sole grandson. _My dear boy_. Grandpapa treated Peter differently and Emily didn't quite understand why. What had her brother done that was so special? Why was Peter given preferential treatment? Sparse visits from and to her grandparents here and there, she'd never noticed it before, but now that they lived at Downton, Emily was beginning to tire of it. She was starting to feel like a disappointment and didn't care for that feeling at all.

For Robert, of course, he put her attitude down to far simpler matters. Emily was grieving and had yet to learn that there were different pursuits for men and for women, that many things were considered unladylike. He didn't agree with much that society had 'decreed' - if his granddaughter was a good shot, then so be it - but there was no point in being ignorant to the way of the world. Going on shoots, it was how men of a certain class socialised and it was important that Peter learn how to do it, and learn how to do it well.

"My dear," He said gently, ignoring Matthew's discreet step back yet watchful gaze, "there are some more..." He pursed his lips pensively, "_robust_ activities which one assumes to be better suited for boys and men, you understand." He smiled pleasantly.

Emily's brow furrowed. Her grandfather's reply feeling almost flippant, dismissive, left her feeling brushed off. She'd expected him to say something more worthwhile, but wasn't too surprised. Old people liked easy lives, she'd witnessed that much. The girl's eyes flickered, their colour flickering from blue to grey to blue again; Matthew could tell that Robert's answer hadn't satisfied her, if not hurt. _God_, she was so much like Mary - silent in her contemplations, not willing to give up her feelings readily. He stood there, waiting for it. For the elegant yet inconsequential shrug of the shoulders, the begrudging acceptance, the wry quip before she turned away; everyone else would think no more of it, but it would plague her. He waited for Emily to follow her mother's example.

But then a quick look passed across the girl's face, her chin jutting out defiantly and, for the first time really, Matthew saw Richard in her expression. That determined resilience, but more importantly that insistence to be _honest_. For all his pomp and arrogance, the man had always been honest, brutally so.

"So many granddaughters," Emily shrugged, a sad smile on her little face, " - how can we compare?"

Robert's eyebrows rose right to his hairline, and before he had even a chance to blink, that flicker of Carlisle evaporated as Emily - emulating Mary again by choosing to avoid confrontation - fled, running back in the direction of the house.

"_Emily_..." Robert tried pleadingly, feeling decidedly wretched. He stepped forward, but there was no point in running after her, not with his knees. She could shoot _and_ she was fast. Robert ignored the calls and demands of Cora and his mother from the table. _Darling, she's upset - what happened? Robert, what did you say,_ w_here is she going? "_Emily, we're having tea here! There's another drive yet!" He tried again, still pleading; his voice rose as anger crept in. It was raining and she could get lost running back to the house. "Emily, you come back here! Emily Violet Carlisle, I won't have this! Come..." His voice trailed off, realising the futility of his calls. He looked to Matthew nigh on desperately. "Go and get her, would you?"

Finally, Matthew did snort, shaking his head. Richard's death had left Robert shaken, had left the man less confident in his abilities as a father, but Matthew wondered whether it simply made the older man act differently or whether it had, in fact, uncovered weaknesses that Matthew had previously ignored. Memories of his own father, Reginald Crawley, losing his temper and blaming his son unfairly engulfed Matthew - this felt eerily similar. The moment where one realises that one's parents are not perfect. That, in fact, mothers and fathers are just as fallible as everybody else. "One should _never_ assume..."

Matthew let it hang in air; Robert looked taken aback by the criticism from such an unlikely source, but took it. Lord Grantham had a feeling he might have buggered up a bit. But Matthew said no more than that, knowing his cousin was probably already beating himself up and, without having to be asked again, took off after young Emmy.

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><p>With a bit of effort, the front door gave way and Emily near fell into the entrance. Her white socks splattered with mud; her hair, darkened by the tepid rain, strands sticking to her face; her hands cold; her cheeks made rosy by wind's chill. She stormed into the hall and rushed up a few steps of the staircase, breathlessly. "Mama!"<p>

She waited a moment, but sighed in frustration to hear no response from upstairs. Her little hand slammed on the handrail, impatiently. She'd near ran all the way back to house, knowing Matthew to be close on her heels and Emily didn't want to face him, not alone, not without her mother to distract him. Matthew would want to talk to her. That was Matthew all over. He fancied himself to be the sorter of all problems and Emily wasn't in the mood for it. She wasn't in the mood for anyone at the moment.

As soon as she'd discovered that her grandfather had organised a shoot in Peter's honour, Emily was furious. Grandpapa's invitation for her to come along did nothing to soothe her anger. She'd only come along to prove a point, and she had done so, knowing Peter's aversion to harming anyone or anything. But her grandfather's admission that it was Emily, not his dear Peter, who was most talented with the shotgun hadn't given her the peace of mind she'd so craved. It niggled at her that she was having to prove herself _at all_. All of it niggled at her.

Whilst she loved her grandfather, her grandmother - and Granny Violet, of course - this morning had been one of revelations. Despite an acquaintance which stretched back to the day she was born, - when Robert Crawley had grinned from ear to ear as his first grandchild wrapped her whole hand around but one of his fingers - it was becoming abundantly clear that the Granthams didn't really _know_ their Carlisle grandchildren. They _adored_ Emily and Peter, without a doubt, in that glorious way that only a grandparent can. Sharing such close quarters, for so many months, it had been a time of trials and tribulations. Robert and Cora could only do their best and one could not fault them for not trying or for not loving well enough. Holding fast, pressing on - it was all that they knew, and it was a method sure to lead to mistakes, but also to success. With smiles on their faces and open arms of comfort, Peter had relied on his grandparents heavily in recent times; they were pillars of strength, unmoveable as the rough waters came in.

But as Emily called out desperately for her mother again, flying back down the stairs and checking the drawing room, she near despised her grandparents for carrying on as if her world hadn't just been obliterated. Which it had, of course. Her father was dead. And in that awfully melodramatic and spiteful fashion that only Emily could pull off, she wanted everyone and everything to feel how she did. That it was raining, it was only right! Like her namesake, however, the girl was awfully contrary. Richard's funeral, the days that had followed - Emily had smiled and laughed without too much guilt. But as more days passed, she missed her father dreadfully and was quick to desire that all around her was as wretched as she felt. Today, who knew, she may decide to smile again.

But now, a pillar of strength with feet of clay - if such a thing were possible! - seemed only proper and today, her grandfather had delivered.

Swinging open the library door, Emily halted as her eyes took in her Aunt Hester rifling determinedly through Grandpapa's desk and his papers. She blinked at what was before her, her hand clammy on the doorknob, droplets of rain uncomfortably working their way down her neck as well as onto the carpet. Emily frowned as the anxiety and frustrations off her aunt seemed to give the room a pulse; she seemed almost mad.

It was only Emily's small gasp as her aunt slammed shut another desk drawer that drew Hester out of her only little world at all. Hester spun around, her eyes dangerous, her posture ready for a confrontation, but she immediately unwound herself as she saw only her young niece at the door.

Taking a moment before leaning as casually as she could on the desk, Hester crossed her arms over her chest and smiled. "Emily, my pet - is there something you wanted?"

Hester watched as Emily's eyes flitted slowly back to the papers strewn, unsurprised by the girl's own question: a Carlisle mind was naturally shrewd. "What are you doing?"

"What a question!" Hester breathed, that same smile still plastered on. "I had a letter, but it's disappeared. I think your grandfather might have picked it up by mistake, locked it away in his desk." She frowned slightly, looking half-heartedly, - though feignedly so - back to what lay upon the desk. As if, mere moments ago, she hadn't been frantically rummaging through everything she could lay her hands on.

One may have put down the rouge in her aunt's cheeks down to the exertion of searching, Hester being on the large side, but Emmy - sharing her aunt's complexion - knew it to be a blush of guilt. Emily went red when she lied, as had her father - perhaps one of the reasons why he refrained from lying - and so, it appeared, did Hester Carlisle. Emily frowned in confusion. Her aunt was lying, and badly, but why? "...What are you _really_ doing?"

Hester scratched her brow tiredly and gave a small shrug."Just...looking for something important. You could help me." She suggested, her eyes lighting up with the idea. "You know all the nooks and crannies where Mama keeps all her," She waved her hand over the desk, "...bits of paper, documents - do you know that word, document?"

Emmy shrugged, not wanting to admit that she didn't know. Nor wanting to ask her aunt, yet again, what exactly she was doing. Having recovered from the shock of seeing Emily at the door, Hester moved off the desk and came towards her. Emily pierced her aunt down with her best stare, but couldn't help the uncomfortable gulp. "Where's Mama?"

"Off walking, in the rain - she wanted to clear her head, whatever that means." Hester answered almost moodily, glancing out of the window, the darkened sky making the library seem all that much smaller. Emily almost jolted back as her aunt came to bend down before her. " I know how difficult it's been." Hester tried, debating with herself whether to extend a hand. She didn't. "Your mother hasn't been quite right...the way all these people speak of your father - it's dreadful. The way that...that _Matthew_ carries on." The woman kept venturing, gazing at her niece, wondering if she was hitting the right nerves. Hester finally laid a gentle hand on Emily's arm, consolingly. "And you've been such a treasure throughout."

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. It _had_ been difficult. Mama _had_ acted strangely. The way in which her own family had spoken of her father when they didn't know her to be in earshot - it wasn't right, it wasn't fair, how could it be when no one knew her father as she did? And Matthew...well, he'd been irritating from the start, hadn't he...

Twisting the doorknob absentmindedly, Emily shuffled on her feet and Hester's eyebrow rose at her discomfort: the girl clearly knew where her mother hid anything of importance. Emily merely needed encouragement. Hester remained knelt before her niece, that smile so welcoming - that smile so like Richard's. All things considered, this Aunt Hester - who had visited rarely, mentioned only in passing - had proven herself to the children over the last few weeks. She wasn't like the other adults; she didn't shy away from any topic. Hester gave a voice to Emily's own criticisms of her grandparents and her mother, empathising with the girl and Emily had been thankful for it. Hester always understood. It didn't occur to Emily that it wasn't Hester's place or that fractures within a family should be kept from children. Hester was honest, Hester treated Emily as an adult. This had meant that her aunt also had the same expectations on Emily as on an adult, according to Hester most games were usually pronounced infantile and a good use of one's imagination was often deemed excessive, but the nine year-old found it refreshing. Instead of treading on eggshells like everybody else, Hester had standards to which one should adhere. She was intimidating, yes, but forthcoming and Emily respected that.

Emily also enjoyed the fact that her demands on herself were higher than on Peter. Peter, of course, was always to be babied - the family couldn't seem to help themselves - but Hester did it in such a way that reeked of ridicule and condescension, and Emily couldn't help but be pleased that at least one person at Downton didn't think that little Peter Rabbit could do no wrong.

And yet, Emmy still got a nervous lump in her throat when Aunt Hester entered a room. Now and then, she would see a flash of something in her aunt's eyes, something not very nice. Despite her ego appreciating the presence of Miss Carlisle at Downton and revelling in having a confidant who, too, wasn't particularly pleased with all the Crawleys, Emily still couldn't bring herself to smile back. Her hand still latched on to the brass doorknob as if it were a lifeline, as if somehow her aunt could drown her with words.

Instincts aren't easily dismissed by children. They do what they want, they do what feels right, innocent to the ways of the world, unbridled by the conflict between the heart and the head that is brought on by adulthood. They make excellent judges of character. And so, dear Emmy - too eager to grow up, too sensitive to every Crawley's behaviour since her father's death - floundered. Her instincts told her that her aunt should not be trusted. She didn't know the woman. But still...

Sensing this, Hester sighed gently and waited until she had her niece's full attention, determined to clinch her argument, to win Emily over:

"You're not a Crawley, Emily - you're a _Carlisle_."

Hester nearly caressed the family name and Emily nearly wilted on the spot over it. She nearly wilted as her young eyes locked with older ones and something seemed to click. The rage and the angst could make sense to the girl now because how could any Crawley possibly understand? For it was the Carlisles who had lost their head, their patriarch, their father. Downton was littered with paintings and head busts of the Crawleys throughout the centuries, great figures of this English Earldom which had once been such sources of intrigue for the girl. This house housed Emily's ancestors, yes, but was it the home of her family? She felt awfully disconnected from it all and now she could say why.

Quickly batting away the tear that fell on to her cheek, Emily felt no closer to trusting her aunt, but still let go of the doorknob. She smiled to think there were two Miss Carlisles in the library today and took comfort gazing into eyes that shared her father's shade, that shared her own.

Walking to her grandfather's desk and pulling open his bottom drawer where she had seen Mama, many a time, putting papers in and taking papers out, Emily pulled out a small folder, wondering if her mother had realised that she, too, didn't really belong here. Mama hadn't looked comfortable so long and how could she? After all, Mama was Lady Mary _Carlisle_. She smiled softly at the thought; she would have hated for Peter and herself to be alone.

What is in a name? Probably not too much, but what is a nine-year old girl to know? When all that one wants most in the world is Father to read a bedtime story, give a goodnight kiss, any piece of him that can be found is held on to and cherished. Richard was dead. Her father was dead. No one understood, not really. And here was a woman before Emily who had his eyes, his smile, shared an expression here and there, that soft Scottish lilt, who did not condescend, but who wanted her help. A _Carlisle_. And Carlisles always were honest, weren't they? If nothing else, they were honest.

Smiling thankfully, Hester took the folder from Emily's small hand and merely eyed it, somehow knowing without opening it treasure lay within. Winking, she cupped her niece's cheek before walking away without a backward glance.

Young as she was, Emmy watched her aunt leave with trepidation, her mind certainly wondering if she'd made a grave error. Honesty had its price and she frowned to think what it was.

Emily swallowed. For a moment, she thought she'd stumbled across something, something profound perhaps. But Crawley or Carlisle, her hair was still dripping, her damp clothes clinging on; she didn't feel any warmer.

**TBC...**

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><p>Thanks for much for your reviews, it means more than you'll ever know.<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

__**So here's the next installment! I read your reviews, took some of your thoughts on board and so I hope you find this chapter to be a bit more cheerful, shall we say, because everyone's been awfully down in the dumps recently, but I suppose that was to be expected. Again, please let me know what you think!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 12:<strong>

_22nd March 1930._

Trudging back up the stairs, Mary half-heartedly pinned her hair, having been caught in the rain, the warmth of yesterday seeming nothing more than a distant memory. Blowing a frustrated breath, she walked along the corridor quickly, eager to strip off her muddy stockings. Pushing her door open, she almost stepped back in shock to see her sister-in-law sat at the edge of her bed, legs crossed, wearing an expression that can be only described as smug. Mary frowned as to why, but a brief glance down possessed all the answers. Her folder sat mockingly by Hester's side.

The folder with _everything_. The dirt on the Turkish politicians, the contract with Vera Bates, Mary's tryst with Mr. Pamuk and her subsequent cover-up of his death. Mary almost shook her head at the predictability of it - was this to haunt her to the end of time? Sometimes, she had to remember it was all a secret; she felt to be continually talking about it and explaining herself. Her back straightening, Mary's eyes left the scene as she walked up to her dresser. "I see that you've found what you were looking for." She said nonchalantly to the mirror, as she once more - but with better grace - fixed her hair.

If Hester was irritated to find Mary's reaction lacking, she didn't let on. She couldn't; she was too busy trying to contain her own glee. "A terribly good read." She sighed, grinning from ear to ear. "I had no idea that my sister-in-law was such a slut. And a scandalous slut at that - the poor man died in your bed!"

Such language didn't provoke. After all, Mary had been called the same by an actual sister once upon a time, back when she was far more innocent to the ways of the world. Turning back around, Mary leant against her dresser and folded her arms, again trying not to shake her head. Hester's words washed over her, as Mary grew increasingly incredulous at the picture before her, that the woman had simply strolled into her room and sat on her bed. It was too audacious for words!

"Come now, sister," Mary smirked, a thought coming to her, knowing exactly what would spring her dear sister from where she had made herself so comfortable. Her eyes wandered over her bed, "- visiting the scene of the crime? You surprise me."

Mary had to stop herself from laughing as Hester's face dropped, her legs uncrossing themselves, her casual demeanour now gone. Hester's nostrils flared as she suddenly seemed to perch rather than sit. "No remorse whatsoever."

Mary lifted her chin a little higher. "I've made my apologies to all those I care about, to those who've been hurt by my actions, - I'm afraid you don't make the list."

Hester barked a laugh at the dig, her quick regain of composure unsettling Mary. There was no knowing what one would get with Hester Carlisle. The older woman shook her head with amusement. "You wound me."

"Like the cat who got the cream..." Mary commented, doing her best to stay calm, "these last few weeks, you were doing your best impression of the spiteful spinster."

The insult struck a chord, undoubtedly; Hester nearly snarled. But it had no wit and was rather below Mary and Mary knew it. It reeked too much of the petty sparring matches she had had with Edith before they were married, born out of, frankly, having nothing better to do with their time. Sniffing, Mary turned back to the dresser, steadying herself as she took off her shoes.

"I never understood what Dick saw in you." Hester offered haughtily, vexed to be now staring at her sister's back. Mary snorted at her response - as if she were in any doubt about that! "Or rather, I understood _what_ he saw, but I couldn't fathom why he thought you and he would do well together...Obviously, you had the elegance, the beauty and, unlike so many women of your lot, you were interesting, witty even." Mary raised a bemused eyebrow to herself as she whipped off her stockings. "He had the money and you had the good breeding - as man and wife, you were destined to be a powerhouse in all decent society. But otherwise..." Hester shook her head, confused by her brother's decision to marry _such_ a woman, "- you're surprisingly astute, often callous, manipulative - you tell the truth, usually with an unnecessary bluntness-"

This time, Mary was the one to bark a laugh. "And I don't suppose _Dick_ shared any of these character traits?"

"No, he _did_ - that was the problem." Hester was quick to retort, pleased to see Mary turn around finally as she put on a fresh pair. "You were too similar. Neither my brother nor you needed _that_. Someone lighter, decent, to keep you both on the right paths, to apply balm to the chips on your shoulders rather than to stoke each other's fires of resentment," Mary rolled her eyes at the way Hester expressed herself. Speaking of a woman who had nothing better to do with her time - how long had it taken her to come as with that turn of phrase? Hester waited for Mary's eyes to meet hers before voicing her final thought, "...the Matthews of this world..."

Mary tutted as she pulled on her second stocking, in awe of how swiftly Hester brought Matthew up."What is it that you want, Hester?" Mary demanded, not caring if she was snapping. "Money? To trawl my name through the newspapers? Or is it that you are so lonely and bitter that you cannot help but cause misery wherever you go?"

A harsh assessment, perhaps, but Mary wasn't in the mood. She didn't have the will to spend an afternoon dealing pointless blows to a woman who, prior to a few weeks ago, would enter her train of thought but once a year and belatedly so, as Mary would suddenly remember that she had yet to send Richard's sister a Christmas card. Hester's eyes narrowed, her jaw clearly clenching. "...My brother deserved better."

Mary sighed at the sentiment, standing up straight again. Honestly, the ending may have left a lot to be desired, but Richard had had a bloody good life before that, hadn't he? Was being married to Mary truly that awful? She pinched the bridge of her nose tiredly. "Most people do."

"Does flippancy assuage your guilt?" Hester now snapped, ignoring the truth of her sister's words.

"What is my own guilt and what is your doing?" Mary retorted, almost throwing her hands into the air. "- Clearly, you believe it all to be my fault!"

Hester stood up, feeling the disadvantage of sitting down as Mary's rose voice. "I only give a voice to _your_ conscience." Hester insisted, trying to keep her tone low. "Of one flesh, you two were not. He should have died by your side, not taken matters into his own hands! His insistence on being his own man, the pathetic lone wolf - if _you_ had been _right_ for him, the keeper of his soul!" Mary's eyes widened at the, to be frank, utter _piffle_ coming out of Hester's mouth; she was waiting for the aggravated stamp of the foot to accompany it. "_That_ was who you were supposed to be - but how could you be his when you were somebody else's?"

"Oh God, it always come back to Matthew..." Mary squeezed her eyes shut with frustration before looking up the ceiling. "It does not..." She sighed, now having to stop herself from stamping her own foot, "- irrespective of Matthew! - _God_!"

Her eyes darted back to Hester, who looked more amused than anything at the fact that Mary couldn't even string a sentence together. The shoe was on the other foot. That self-satisfied expression, she'd been wearing it for weeks. It seemed as if, at every occasion, Hester would bring up the fact that Mary hadn't been a good wife to Richard. And Mary was sick of defending herself, sick of feeling guilty, sick of being constantly berated - by _everyone_. She'd done everything she could, hadn't she? She'd kept his house in order, gave him a son to carry on the family name and a daughter who'd adored him; she'd ensured that they were good standing members of society, even a powerhouse as Hester had so well-described. And all the while, they'd enjoyed a life together.

Covering her face with her hands, Mary blew out a ragged breath in an effort to stay calm. What the hell did people want from her? So, she wasn't the Juliet to his Romeo, well bully for that! How kind had life been to those star-crossed lovers? If Mary had been any more _right_ for Richard, would that have spared him cancer and death? Doubtful, at best. They'd got on, they'd respected each other, they'd actually _liked_ each other - didn't that count for something? How many other marriages could really boast the same? Not many, in their part of the pecking order. Bringing her hands down to clench them by her side, Mary's body was pulsing. The audacity of this woman! These impossible standards-! "You're right - there, I said it! You are right; we were a bad match!" Mary conceded, her breathing still heavy. Her expression dared Hester to reply, but surprisingly Hester stayed silent, perhaps shocked to hear her sister's agreement.

Mary opened her mouth to shout something else, a defence, or an explanation, but nothing came as she let her own words sink in. Her breathing started to quieten, as the pulsing suddenly dimmed to a mere hum. These impossible standards, yes, but had Hester set them?

_No_, Mary had set them for _herself_.

She and Richard had nigh on charged their way through life - making no excuses and taking no prisoners - but, when he'd informed her of his illness, everything had come to halt. And she'd had far too many hours locked up in Downton to consider her marriage and to criticise her part in it. Granny had told her not to wallow, but she had been - she'd been wallowing for so long, drinking herself into many stupors, going from points of ecstasy to the depths of despair. The day of Richard's funeral, she'd thrown herself and the children a party; today, she'd walked the grounds, so consumed by her own thoughts, she'd been thoroughly drenched before she even knew it was raining! It wasn't normal, it wasn't right - her grief prolonged and deepened by this relentless feeling of _guilt_ that she'd failed in some way. Failed Richard, failed her children, failed herself. Was it truly that simple? Was that all that is was, that they were just...

"A bad match." Mary repeated quietly, the fight stripped from her. Closing her eyes for a moment, Mary fought the urge to pour her something strong and retreated to a chair. Standing alone in Mary's room, Hester was thrown for an uncomfortable loop as her sister's anger seemingly evaporated. "Do you know, it is only hearing my _conscience_ back that I realise that..." Mary ventured, half-smiling as she leant forward, her forearms resting on her legs, her hands clasped, her head bent, "...that I have far too much time on my hands. I spent years trying to unlock Richard and even now, he is never far from my mind and I truly thought..." Mary looked up from the carpet to the room's other companion, shaking her head at herself and finally coming to grips with why she'd kept this awful woman around for so long, "...that _you_ were the key somehow. If I knew why you were here, if I welcomed you with open arms...I would understand him, I don't know...but frankly, in this very moment," Mary shrugged, the exhaustion in her voice all too clear. Yet, a small smile graced her face and her eyes watered, as the stubborn knot which had formed in her chest undid itself, "- I do not _care_."

Hester scowled at her declaration, but Mary was too busy revelling in her own revelation. She shrugged again, much more effortlessly this time. "More importantly, I don't _have_ to care and there is no need for me to feel guilty about that. Richard and I were a bad match. We probably should have never married, but we did and I cannot regret it because he gave me the two most wonderful children in the world. And we've done things and seen places that I've only ever dreamt of. I grew fond of your brother, I loved him and I _miss_ him." Mary took a moment as her voice caught on those last words. "...but _you_..."

Hester folded her arms in wait, but Mary's mouth stayed shut. Shifting from one foot to the other, the older woman ensured her expression remained expectant rather than anxious, a difficult task as her sister-in-law's eyes bore into her. Again, the shoe was on the other foot. Sniffing, she licked her lips casually, but her temper was silently fraying, not at all enjoying being in the other's territory. "I wait on baited breath."

Dragging her eyes from Hester's face, Mary looked back to the folder sitting on her bed, begging to be snatched back, but realising that she had no desire to snatch it at all. No desire to cover up, or be discreet, or skirt around the truth. This conversation had exhausted her; most conversations did nowadays. The guilt had sapped her energy and so had all the lying.

Getting up from her chair, Mary stood tall and tilted her head a little as she looked hard at her _sister_. Mary had been nice to this woman. Some days, she had even cowered from her, so scared of what Hester might know, what she might do. Hell, she'd even tried to be a look-out and catch her in the act. Mary wasn't immune to fear by any means, but it had never been in her to run or shy from it; she had always been one to belittle fear and intimidate it, to insult it. Mary wasn't nice about it, she'd sooner spit in fear's eye and tell it to piss off.

Feeling a lot calmer, she let her eyes drift up and down Hester Carlisle, burning to memory the woman's inability to put together one decent outfit. "We are _done_." Mary said coolly, her eyes glancing one more to the folder in disdain. "Publish whatever you want, sell your story to the highest bidder because you will _never_ get another penny more from me - but, firstly," She said, stepping closer, and taking delight in regaining control once more, "get your things and get the hell out of this house."

That icy resilience flashed dangerously in Hester's eyes, as it had done many times in Richard's and for a split second, Mary nearly thought the woman was going to slap her. But like her brother, Hester knew when she was fighting a losing battle. Still, she was quick to let an insult fly and to drive a knife to the heart.

"The haughty waif of a bitch has a backbone." Hester said crisply, her insult not even making a dent. "And it is little old me who is ruining everything, is it? Stopping you and Matthew from painting that rosy family picture together?"

Mary scoffed inwardly. _Matthew_. He really was the only weapon in her arsenal and Mary took great comfort that it didn't sting her as it once had, already washing off her guilt. "You are poisonous and I should have shown you the door during the wake." Mary smiled politely, her words anything but.

"Not so rosy when you consider how I came by these papers..." Hester raised an eyebrow, not missing a beat and pausing for effect. "For a nine-year old, your daughter is awfully perceptive to your ways."

And there was the knife to the heart. Right on target.

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><p>Gently pressing on the library door, Matthew wasn't surprised that it slowly swung open to reveal a fairly forlorn-looking young girl, sat cross legged on the floor. Her back to him, he could only assume her attention was too drawn in by the clattering against the window panes and the flashes of lightening; a storm was taking hold, the muggy morning long gone. Matthew's eyes softened as he took in the scene before him. After her giving him the run around and the long uphill walk back up to Downton, Matthew had been more than ready to have it out with the girl, but seeing her now...Emily looked so <em>small<em>. Like the little girl that, in fact, she was. All her intelligence, all her petulance, all her cheek and her lip - one often forgot that she was so young. Young and grieving. Like Mary, when upset or feeling threatened, Emily lashed out. Using their tongues to injure others, they usually came to regret it, but their pride didn't often allow them to apologise. Both easier to wound than either would ever let on, it was in these rare moments - when they thought themselves quite alone - that their true colours showed.

Heaving a sigh to alert her to his presence, Matthew pushed off from the doorframe and - ignoring Emily's terrible scowl - he came to sit beside her, on the floor, looking out on to the garden and the now raging storm.

"Here, you are. You certainly rushed off - and I am not as quick as I once was." Matthew offered jokingly, his feet set apart, knees up, his forearms leant upon them, his hands clasped. His posture made him seem at ease; whether he was, that was another matter entirely. His joke failed to lift her spirits; Emily's scowl didn't leave her face, her eyes still resolutely ahead. Matthew sighed inwardly. He knew there was a certain art to talking to girls on the cusp of adolescence. He also knew that he didn't possess this art. "Emily, I know that _you_ know that you shouldn't run away like that. We wouldn't want you to get lost now, would we? Like a knight in rather rusty armour, I'd be forever trying to rescue you." He tried to joke again, but clearly she wasn't in the mood for his attempts at light relief. He sighed, wanting to shed light on why the girl and her beloved Grandpapa were at odds. "Your grandfather...he's older than I, and very much older than you - his outlook on the world, it's..." Matthew shrugged, trying to articulate himself without insulting Robert, "...dated. He still thinks that there are firm pursuits, _hobbies_" Matthew quickly adjusted, noticing the small frown Emily wore, "- which girls have and boys have and it falls to a grandfather to share in the boys' hobbies with his grandson."

Matthew licked his lips, letting his words sink in. Emily's eyes remained trained on the window, but her brow creased pensively."You don't think that?" She asked, as if she couldn't care less for his answer.

Matthew's eyebrows rose, surprised by the question, never having really thought about it too much. There was something of the traditionalist about him at times, he supposed. His mother had often accused him of laying too much responsibility at the feet of men. He did consider it a man's job - his _duty_ - to protect and provide for his family. And, like any petulant man, he could be sometimes quick to declare his mother ignorant in some traditionally male matters if he wasn't getting his own way. One look from Isobel Crawley was enough to realise how absurd such lines of thinking were. It was her unwavering example which had always convinced him of how capable women were. But it wasn't until Downton, that Matthew had truly appreciated that ladies were not merely capable, but more likely than not, a great force to be reckoned with. "I thought I did and sometimes when I'm being quite ridiculous, I still do." Matthew replied, honestly. "But then, I met your Mama, Aunt Sybil, not forgetting Granny Violet..._you_." He smiled slightly, as she eventually gave him her gaze. "I think a girl, if she sets her mind to it, can do whatever a boy can - if not do better! You were right; you have the potential to be a very good markswoman indeed," He paused for a beat, "- and I will _forever_ struggle to hit anything."

Finally, he managed to successfully bring a little humour to the room - even if it was at his own expense - and was rewarded for his efforts with a playful smirk. Emily pursed her lips, not allowing herself a grin. "You weren't _that_ terrible, I suppose."

"You're too kind." Matthew deadpanned, inwardly jumping for joy that he'd put a smile, though small, on her face. But still, the need to make her see the error of her ways gnawed at him, as these things always did with Matthew, and now he had her attention, he quickly drove his point home. "But even if you're right, that doesn't give you carte blanche to do as you like, including running away from your grandfather."

Emily would never admit that she had no idea what a carte blanche was, but she understood him well enough, and knew Matthew to be right. Not that she'd ever admit that either. Scowling again, Matthew grimaced as that brief comfortable respite disappeared as swiftly as it came. "Peter is probably asking after you."

Again, Matthew's eyebrows rose; he truly couldn't predict what she was going to say next, the mind of a child alternating from one idea to the next without any explanation. "Perhaps." Matthew agreed, puzzled as to why she would say such a thing. "Would you rather he didn't?"

"It hardly matters what I want."

_God_, she was Mary. And, as with Mary, he knew it best to forget the things she said and rather consider how she said it. The bitterness in Emily's tone was palpable. "It matters to me." He insisted.

"Well, that's silly." Emily said rolling her eyes, making Matthew feel very much as if she were the adult and he the child. "You don't really know me, and you don't like me."

Matthew's eyes lit up with amusement, her honesty as to how she felt ever so refreshing. "I don't?"

Emily opened her mouth to respond, but closed it again, realising that she'd never really thought about how Matthew felt - about anything. "You _shouldn't_," She said adamantly, after a moment, the idea that he could, after all she'd thrown at him, being rather ludicrous. " - I'm horrid to you and I don't like you much either."

Matthew couldn't help but bark a laugh. Very honest, indeed. "Yes, I had noticed that." He commented, good-naturedly, feeling that they might be able to get somewhere after all. "Any particular reason why..." He ventured casually.

Emily half-heartedly glared at the man beside her, making it clear that she knew what he was about. She was nine years old, not six. She knew enough about the world to know when adults were fishing. "You're always nice, because if you weren't, Mama would be perfectly rotten." She said succinctly, another smirk - this time not playful - on her face. Yes, she knew exactly what Matthew was about. "And you wouldn't want that..."

"No?"

"No," Emily repeated, starting to be irritated by him, "- because you love my Mama."

Matthew smiled inwardly at the girl's clear disappointment to find that her statement was of no great surprise. "I see. That's a problem, is it?" Such a question only earned him a glare, but Matthew genuinely wished to know, to understand. "You scowl, but you love your mother, as does Peter, as do _I,_" He said pointedly, acknowledging she was right, "- why should that mean that we argue?"

"I'm not stupid." She insisted, rather testy with his questions and with the fact that she wasn't sure how to answer him. Matthew loving Mama, it irritated her. No, more than that, it offended her and every bone in her body told her that it wasn't appropriate. Scowling again, she searched her mind as to why. "It's not the same thing, you know it isn't."

Matthew scraped a hand over his face. Emily frowned at that; adults mostly tried not to let on when they were finding her to be trying. In a better frame of mind, she may have felt sorry for him, but Emily was still drying out and had other things weighing on her. He sighed exasperated, wondering if or when she'd finally tire of hating him. "I want to understand, Emily. That's all."

Emily eyed the man beside her doubtfully. _That's all_, was it? How many times had a parent said that in order to coax her and Peter into doing something? Days, maybe only hours later, there would always be something _else_. She didn't want to get into this with Matthew; she was perfectly content to simply ignore the man as best as she could. But for Matthew, that wasn't enough. Suddenly, he reminded her of Margo, a girl so determined to have everyone like her - well, to have all the grown-ups like her, at least. A girl who clawed on until one gave her the attention she craved and, despite all efforts and the fact that she was bothersome beyond belief, one did end up fond of her, albeit reluctantly so. Emily's eyes narrowed dubiously; she could only really afford one Margo in her life. "So we can be the best of friends?"

"...So, we can start again."

Emily sighed unhappily, thinking him a little too reasonable. That was the thing with Matthew, one _did_ end up fond of him, because he was, all-in-all, a terribly good chap. Irritatingly so. But it was all still _wrong_. "Father loved Mama."

Matthew nodded slowly, waiting for more. She looked expectant, but he wasn't sure why. Considering what she said did raise an eyebrow though; he'd never really thought too hard about Richard's feelings. But, despite their infrequent get-togethers over the years, Matthew would have been an idiot not to notice the affection, if not adoration, Richard had for his wife. "I think, well yes - he did, very much." He replied quietly. However, his agreement didn't placate Emily. In fact, it seemed to almost dissatisfy her and she wrinkled her nose before she could stop herself and turned to look back out at the grey clouds looming above them. Evidently, Matthew's response had not been a desirous one. Matthew cleared his throat uncomfortably before, too, turning back to the window. The skies really were menacing. He'd never liked storms too much; thunder had always terrified him as a child and the war had seen to that fear resurfacing for good. Matthew couldn't help but shudder at every clap of it.

The weather had been similarly abysmal when he'd first met Emily. Months old and bouncing on her mother's knee, no amount of rain could dampen Richard's spirits. That's why, of course, Matthew could remember the weather back then so well. His smile, his pride, lit up the room and Matthew, blinded by it, had spent much of that day staring out of the window. _Father loved Mama_ - yes, he most certainly did. Mary and Richard's marriage may have had its rocky moments and more than its fair share of arguments, but throughout Richard's love was unwavering. He worshipped the ground Mary walked on, he made mountains move to keep her happy - Emily knew that.

"But you know that..."

Matthew's voice turned Emily's head to him, once more. She looked cautious, but inquisitive; she was waiting for him to tell her something, _explain_ something, but couldn't bear to ask him outright. She'd affirmed that Matthew loved her Mama and that her father had too, what else...

Matthew berated himself; it was staring him in the face. If Matthew loved Mama and Father loved Mama - who then did Mama love? Because, of course, in a child's mind, Mary could only love one of them and love that man with all her heart and with complete conviction. Wasn't that the story sold to children, girls in particular? Every fairytale was the same. The white knight who rides in and rescues the princess from marrying some awful man - who's usually far too old for her and is implied to be dreadfully unattractive - and all other manners of evil. The hero always get the girl - and the girl is steadfast in her love for him. The Brothers Grimm weren't famed for writing about the _m__é__nage __à__ trois. _

Somehow, he doubted Mary would want him translating that particular phrase for her daughter. He wasn't sure how to put it, but he couldn't lie to Emily - he didn't want to - and they had come too far down this path for him to dismiss her or change the subject, to take the coward's way out. She'd been honest with him; he would have to return the compliment.

"Emily, I'm not very good with children." Unsurprisingly, that assessment received only a snort. A wonderful start, then. The corners of his mouth twitched begrudgingly. "Or, at least, I don't speak to children as one probably should. I say too much and I shan't lie to you, I don't see the point of it. I think it's why I have avoided you, to some extent..." Matthew swallowed, slightly worried about the subject he was about to embark upon, "...Peter never asks difficult questions."

"I didn't ask a question." Emily raised an eyebrow, very Mary, very intimidating.

"Love is not a simple thing." Matthew went on, doing his best neither to patronise nor complicate matters. "If you love a person, you marry them - that's supposed to be the long and short of it, but it's not. Many marriages are based on love, many are not."

For the first time since Matthew walked into the room, the caution left her expression entirely as the curiosity took over. Frowning, Emily busied herself with bringing her knees up to her chest, not wanting to appear too interested. "Why would you marry someone you didn't love?"

Matthew had to stop himself from scoffing at that. Good bloody question! But time and the wisdom that came with it had taught him that love was not the be all and end all for many people and, among the upper echelons of society, it often wasn't even a consideration. His middle-class background encouraged Matthew to marry someone appropriate, of course - of his own class, of good morals etc. - but also that he could and would marry for love. When he'd asked Mary for her hand all those years ago, the matter had been simple. _Do you love me enough to spend your life with me? If you don't, say no. If you do, say yes. _She hadn't said anything at all and that, along with the possibility of a new heir, convinced him that he couldn't marry her. He couldn't marry Mary, because he wasn't sure that she loved him. For a man with no one to truly answer to but himself, with an income of his own and with no preconceived notions of who his future partner in life would be, he could afford to marry for love. He expected to. To think that Mary regarded marriage with a mercenary eye, it hurt Matthew and frankly, it lowered his opinion of her. It didn't occur to him until later that she was not at fault. Having been unofficially betrothed to her cousin Patrick for years, the very word _marriage_ did not conjure any notions of happiness and family and _love_ for Mary. Marriage was about duty and dependence and living a life resigned - someone as strong-willed as Mary could only meet marriage with resistance under such circumstances. Why would you marry someone you didn't love? Many would equally ask why you would marry someone you _did_. It spoke well of Mary as a mother that her daughter was befuddled by a marriage without love.

Matthew couldn't, in good conscience, ruin that and so did his best to breeze over it.

"I honestly don't know." He smiled, though it was more of a grimace. It wasn't a lie - he couldn't do it and it saddened him that so many did. "You grow up, and life gets in the way, and love sometimes doesn't seem as important as it once did."

Resting her chin upon her knees, Emily pondered on that. She seemed to accept it; adults always _were_ very busy. Perhaps they didn't realise that they weren't in love when they married, perhaps they forgot that love was a must, she wasn't sure. She also wasn't sure that she cared for what Matthew was insinuating. That just because Mama and Father had married, that didn't mean they loved each other."So, you think that Mama loves you-"

"I think that love," Matthew quickly interrupted, as her eyes darted to him, "...isn't an absolute. That is, there are many ways of loving someone. You don't love Peter in the same way you love Margo, for example." He tried, smiling.

"Who says I love Margo?" She said, indignant, her head flying up.

"You love every member of this family," Matthew said quite seriously, knowing that she knew it to be true, "because they are all special, and the love you share with _each_ of them is different and wonderful and irreplaceable, hmm?" She couldn't disagree. He shrugged, smiling softly. "That's all it is. Mama loved your father...and she loves me," He said admittedly, "- and it's different."

The smile didn't leave Matthew's eyes, as Emily wrinkled her nose so sweetly, in thought. He made sense, but still there wasn't something quite right. In fact, she believed there something to be very wrong - wrong with Mama loving Matthew. Because Mama and Matthew didn't hug, or kiss each other good morning or goodnight, they never spoke of how they felt about one another out loud. It was like an unsaid secret in the house. A secret which had made Father very uncomfortable. A secret which made Emily uncomfortable, still. Emily _had_ read her fairytales; when a girl and a boy fell _in_ _love_, _that_ love put every other love second. "But a husband, that's the most special sort of love, isn't it...," She ventured, working it through in her mind, "and that's how Mama loves you, like that...not like she loves a brother or a father, but...well, when you want to spend your life with a person..."

Beautifully put. And Matthew could have wept at how sad she sounded, how resigned. To think that she did not come first in her mother's affections. That was the thing with fairytales - they never mentioned what happened _after_ the happily ever after. When the prince married his princess and they had children of their own. How those children meant _everything_. Matthew had only known Peter and Emily for a matter of months, but he'd known for some time that he'd do anything to protect them. Rabbit had been an easy boy to love; Emily, he could not help but love from afar. They were beautiful and smart and oh-so-brave. Despite a few stumbles here and there, they had handled Richard's passing admirably and often he had to remind himself that they were children, their personalities so bright and wonderful, their observations of the world so perceptive.

Sat next to this little girl, her shivering waning as her hair dried and matted to head, he understood her better - and loved her more for it - than ever before. She had every right to dislike him if her imaginings were the truth, if he had really supplanted their place in their mother's heart. Lucky for him, he hadn't. "Oh Emmy," the diminutive slipping from his lips and, in her misery, she forgot to scold him for it, "- that isn't the most special sort of love, not by a long shot. A mother's love..." He blew out a breath, not quite sure how to phrase it, not sure if such a thing could be phrased, "- she would walk over hot coals for you and Peter, climb every mountain, swim every ocean - sometimes I'm lucky if I get a 'hello' from your Mama." He nudged her shoulder daringly, hoping to garner a smile from her. She smiled briefly, but wasn't entirely convinced. He nudged her again, insisting on her attention. He went on, determinedly. "Nobody comes close; no one ever will. Even when you and your brother are all grown and have children of your own, you two will always be her little ones - how can one compete? And that, _that_ is how it is supposed to be."

"Even if Mama has _little_ _ones_ with you?"

"Ah well," Matthew grinned at her needlessly worrying and in embarrassment at the idea of having children with Mary, "- a parent's heart is awfully clever - it loves each child quite the same."

She nodded, swallowing a little, scuffing her dirty heel against the carpet. "What about you?" She tried, nonchalantly. "Would you love us all quite the same?"

The question took Matthew by surprise and the grin was quick to fall off his face. All of these revelations were catching him off guard; he felt his jaw going slack. Clearly, Emily's mind had ran away with her. For how long, he wasn't sure; perhaps seeing her young cousins had sparked off her musings. Emily had connected the dots so fast that she wasn't sure what to do with it. If Mama and Matthew loved one another, then they would marry and have their _own_ children, wasn't that the natural conclusion? Matthew had been right to think that this all stemmed from Richard, _to a certain extent_. He was gone and now Matthew seemed to be readying himself to take his place. Every child was to resent that, to be sure. Matthew now also appreciated that Emily had felt _herself_ being replaced, that he might mean more to Mary than she and Peter did. But Matthew hadn't been prepared for the idea that it was not simply Mary's affections which had Emily concerned.

Emily wanted to be assured of _Matthew's_ love.

Would he love her as his own? If he even could? If so, could he still, if he were to have more children that were of his own flesh and blood? Matthew held Peter's hand, they did _everything_ together - would they still, if Matthew had a son, a boy to ensure Crawley survived for another generation?

Biting her lip, Emily bucked up the courage to glance at the man beside her, before looking back down at her feet. She seemed to go in on herself as she waited for Matthew to respond. But, he was almost dumbstruck. He had put down the distance she kept between them as the natural resentment she felt, but now he was berating himself for ever thinking such a thing. Emily could hold a grudge, without a doubt, but like her mother, most of the things she did - and the smart-mouthing she partook in - were all in the aid of protecting herself. Protecting her heart, above all else. And that young heart of hers had certainly taken a beating in recent times. Emily couldn't allow herself to open up to Matthew - to _love_ Matthew - if there was ever a chance that he might one day stop loving her. She couldn't take that risk.

She'd already lost one father; she couldn't do that again.

And Matthew gulped to realise that, really, this was all a test, even if Emily didn't know it. He had thought that this was going to be a talk about grief, but instead it had morphed into something entirely different. Children, unburdened by the desire to wallow in the past as adults so often did, were quick to adapt and Emily was already thinking to the future. She missed her father, of course, and she would only ever have the fondest memories of him, but Matthew - who had integrated himself so intimately into their family and clearly loved Mama very much - was an obvious candidate to fulfil the father role. Unbeknownst to Matthew and probably fairly unbeknownst to Emily, she had been sizing him up for weeks now. No, this wasn't about Emily and her grief; this was about Matthew and whether he would step up to the mark.

Obviously, he had known that to marry Mary would mean becoming an important person in Emily and Peter's lives, that they would live together and would be Mary's chief concern. He had often considered that it would not all be plain sailing and that such a transition would be hard on everybody, but he still felt they could make quite the family. However, Matthew hadn't truly appreciated what to be a _family_ meant, until this moment. He would become a parent: the greatest responsibility of all. There were sure to be countless more conversations just like this one, in which Emily had her worries and her grievances and he would have to do his best to comfort her. So desirous was he to become Mary's husband, he'd overlooked that that very same day, he would also become a father.

He licked his lips, knowing that now wasn't the time to bugger up. "I would do my best to love you _all_ the same," he assured her, sincerely, before raising a hand - with more confidence than he felt - to stroke her damp hair affectionately, "- but you don't make it easy, you know."

"Oh." Emily said, genuinely surprised. He nearly rolled his eyes; she didn't realise how abominably rude she could be - now who could she have picked that up from? She wiped her nose with the back of her hand; he grimaced, no doubt she'd get a cold from today. "Does Mama make it easy?" She asked, interested. He raised his eyebrows; Emily certainly deserved a touché for that response. However, that would have needed explanation and Matthew felt that enough milestones had been made today. He sealed his lips with his free hand and Emily grinned in response. She sighed, but he was pleased to hear it sound much lighter than before. "So, what's going to happen now?"

"I'm not too sure. I think your mother wants to take you and your brother to London, at least for a while." He said, keeping the disappointment out of his voice as his hand left her hair to rest behind him. He leant back, feeling truly comfortable for the first time since he'd sat down.

"I see." Emily offered noncommittally, a pout coming to her lips. Making some sort of decision, she stood up from the floor and took to biting her nails for a moment. "If I tell you something, it must stay between us."

He frowned at the request but agreed. "Yes, alright."

"Aunt Hester was snooping - and I did something bad, I think." His frown grew deeper and Emily's heart sunk, sure that what she'd done was awful. "I saw Mama with it before and...I gave Hester some papers."

Matthew's tongue hit the roof of his mouth, agitated, but he blew a calming breath as he saw Emily's anxious face. It wouldn't do for him to get angry, not when they'd managed to foster such a fragile truce between them. "Right. Do you know what's on these papers? Why did you give them to your Aunt? - I assume that you knew they didn't belong to her?"

"Yes, I did know." Emily said downcast, her eyes falling to the carpet shamefully. "But I...I was upset and she talked about being a Carlisle and _her_ family..." Matthew's eyes widened as her little brow creased and she let out a mournful sob, "...but I know Father would be angry with me-"

"Ssh, don't..." Matthew assured her, still not sure how to comfort a little girl when she cried. He turned to her and reached to grasp her hand, waiting until she looked down at him. Those lovely eyes and that blasted woman had made them cry so. "Your father would be angry, yes, but not with you." He assured her firmly, his tone belying who was really at blame here. It didn't stop another sob escape from Emily, however, and she rubbed an eye with her free hand tiredly. His eyes softened; it had been a trying day for the girl and one of many revelations. "Well, you shouldn't have given them to her, but you know that, and you're sorry?" She nodded slightly, feeling wretched and terribly sorry for herself. Matthew shrugged; had he reprimanded her appropriately? He had no idea. It would have to do. "That's that, then. I won't say anything - although I do suggest you confess this to your mother. You might get into trouble, but you'll feel better for it." He looked at her earnestly before, too, making the decision to get up, albeit not half as quickly as young Emily had.

"I shall, yes."

"Right, then. Good. Excellent." Matthew nodded, finishing with a smile, at a loss as what to do next. "Fancy a game of chess?" Sniffing back the rest of her tears, Emily's expression was one that could only be described as horror-struck. Matthew sighed inwardly, not sure whether to be pleased or disheartened by the fact that some things hadn't changed: Emily still found his definition of fun to be...well, rubbish. "Not a fan? - Fair enough."

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><p>"Carson!" Mary blinked up in surprise, as the butler suddenly loomed over, a great umbrella shielding him from the ghastly weather. Always prepared. Rubbing her arms against the chill, she smiled welcomingly as he let it down and came to stand beside her in the entrance. Looking out onto the drive, he watched with her for a moment, as Gable rushed around, piling suitcases into Sir Richard's Chrysler Imperial.<p>

"I've come to send the car down, milady." Carson offered eventually, his rich tone warming her up a little. He cast his eyes to the skies. "The weather doesn't seem to be letting up."

Mary tutted, her eyes sliding to him. She'd never remembered Carson ever being young by any means, but as the years rolled on, she was annoyed to think her family had sent the aging butler all the way back to the house in this rain. "You should have sent Matthew to do that."

"Mr. Crawley went after Miss Emily." Mary turned to him, concerned. Carson was quick to assure her. "I saw them in the library together as I passed."

Mary raised her eyebrows - and they hadn't killed each other yet? She was surprised. She looked back to the library door, sighing, before looking back out onto the scene outside. "No doubt, it'll all end in tears."

Of course, Carson neither agreed nor disagreed with her sentiment. An inquiring eyebrow rose a little, however, his gaze flitting between Mary and the car. "Are you going somewhere, milady?"

"No, not yet anyway. Richard's..." She trailed off, checking herself, a self-satisfied smile coming on to her face, as Mary noted to herself that she was in charge now and she'd managed this affair all by herself, "_my_ driver is taking Miss Carlisle to the station. The dragon is finally returning to her lair." She finished wryly.

"If I may say so, milady..." Carson said, finally noticing the figure behind the blackened window in the back of the car, unable to keep _something_ from his voice. Pride or amusement, Mary couldn't tell. She looked to him, questioningly; the butler's eyes twinkled. " - Good riddance never seemed more apt a phrase."

"Quite."

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><p>Poking her head around the library, Mary hoped there wouldn't be a murder scene before her. If everyone had been in one piece, she would have been pleasantly surprised. But <em>this<em> - this was more than pleasant to see. Her eyes smiled, utterly bemused, to see her daughter - looking, frankly, a state - sat on the settee, close to Matthew and showing him one of Papa's albums of all the grandchildren. To hear Emily's whisperings - _and here's Peter when he was a baby, look at how big his head was!_ - near stopped her in her tracks. Someone had obviously heard her prayers. No, more than that. She'd wanted Matthew and Emily to put down their weapons and agree to be cordial - _this_ was beyond her wildest expectations. They were being friendly; they seemed almost like _friends_.

"Is everything alright in here?" She asked quietly, desperate not to disturb the peace as she entered the room fully, but knowing that she and her daughter had something to discuss. She couldn't help a smirk as they both seemed to spring apart.

"Oh yes! Everything's fine!" Matthew assured her. Mary raised an amused eyebrow; his voice did go terribly high when stressed.

Mary nodded, not entirely convinced but letting it lie as her attention turned to her daughter. She kept her face open, the question innocently posed to her, too. Emily gave her Mama an unflinching gaze, but Mary could see she was obviously torn. Mary bit the inside of her cheek, determined to allow her daughter to come clean, but not quite sure what she expected.

Her mind had been whirling as to why Emily would do such a thing. Had it all simply been a mistake? Or had Emily known what was in the folder? Was this an act of revenge for, what Emily considered to be, Mary's failings as a wife during Richard's final months? Or was is that Emily now trusted Hester's judgment and guidance more than her mother's?

She tried to stop herself from appearing anxious, but she was sure that she was doing a horrible job of it. This was starting to become a pattern. When Hester had revealed that it was her _daughter_ who had given her the folder, sickening memories of Evelyn Napier in her Aunt Rosamund's drawing room came flooding back, of Edith having betrayed her to the Turkish Ambassador. Edith's betrayal had shocked her, but -as she had said to Evelyn at the time - it wasn't that hard to believe. She could reconcile it; Edith and she had been unkind to each other for years, with Mary becoming particularly wicked in the wake of her 'arrangement' with Patrick. The idea that Emily had purposely sought to hurt her in some way -she couldn't reconcile herself to that. It _couldn't_ be true and, if it was...she was her daughter. Getting even didn't cross her mind for a second. No, if it was true, then Mary could only strive to be the best mother she could be and ensure that something like this didn't again, that _no one_ would come between them as Hester Carlisle had.

Mary swallowed, as her daughter glanced at Matthew, before coming off the settee and making her way towards her. At her daughter's shy glance, Mary came to kneel before her, ready for whatever she had to say.

Stepping closer, Emily lowered her voice and Matthew busied himself with the album once more. "...Mama, I'm sorry but I did a terrible thing...I..."

Emily didn't know how to put it; her mother thought she put it perfectly. Her daughter was _sorry_. Mary nearly sobbed with relief on the spot. Mistake or not, Mary didn't care - Emmy was sorry for what she did and that was all that mattered. All these years later, she didn't have it in her to hold Edith's letter about Pamuk against her. After all, Mary had brought it on herself. But even now, an apology was too much for her sister. She loved Edith, just as much as she loved Sybil, but their relationship was a fractured one and sisterly affection did not come easily to either of them. They didn't like each other all that much and had never gone to great efforts to understand one other. It wasn't irretrievable, but they had made one too many biting comments to share in the easy friendship that Sybil had with both of her sisters. Much of the water was under the bridge, but some things couldn't be forgotten. Given her youth again, Mary would have done _much_ differently and it lifted her heart to know that her relationship with her daughter wasn't starting to head down a similar path.

"You don't need to say sorry." Mary insisted, smiling brightly, wrapping her arms happily around her beautiful little girl.

"I don't think Aunt Hester is a very nice lady." Mary grinned to hear her daughter's mufflings into her shoulder.

Laughing, she pulled back and smoothed Emmy's hair back, curling it around her ear. "I think you might be right - which is why, she is leaving as we speak. Would you like to say your goodbyes?" She offered, trying not to sound too reluctant about the idea.

"Not particularly."

Mary threw her head in laughter, her relief about everything making her quite giddy. Matthew grinned as he flicked his way through the pictures absentmindedly. "No, me neither." Mary smiled conspiratorially, hoping to Emily cheer up, too. "I think your Aunts Edith and Sybil are enough aunts for us, don't you?"

"Quite right." Matthew took it upon himself to answer, shutting the album and tossing it gently on to the coffee table. Downton had far too many stubborn and argumentative women around as it was; Mary rolled her eyes, knowing where his mind was. He pouted thoughtfully. "I hope Peter's not too cut up about it."

"Peter hasn't liked her since Wednesday." Emily declared confidently to them both. Mary raised a questioning eyebrow. Emily shrugged, obviously. "She sent Nicholas down to be washed."

"The cheek of her!" Mary gasped, feigning more shock than she really felt, but not terribly surprised. Interfere with Nicholas at your own peril. Kissing Emily's cheek fondly, she rose and came to sit herself in an armchair. "How was the shoot?"

"Oh, I'm rather good," Emily said rather unassumingly, reclaiming her seat beside Matthew, "but I shan't be going again for awhile - Peter needs all the practice he can get! Matthew's going to teach me to ride his bike instead."

Mary blinked at that, but quickly regained her composure. She glanced at Matthew for confirmation; he nodded slightly. She tapped the armchair rest, looking back to her daughter. "...You two are friends now?"

Emily frowned and sat up a little straighter, feeling it all to be rather sudden. _Friends_ - how did she feel about that? She looked to Matthew questioningly; he was happy to jump straight in."On the contrary..." He winked down at Emily, "...we are new acquaintances who - if I might say so - have made a rather smashing start." Matthew smiled agreeably, glancing again to Emily for her agreement. She smiled back at him and that was certainly enough for he and Mary.

**TBC...**

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

******So sorry for the wait! But I really appreciate your support so much, you've all been amazing, please keep the reviews coming! It's good to know what bits you like, it really helps me improve how I write and the tone I take with a story. But anyway, please enjoy! So excited that series 3 will be here soon!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 13:<strong>

_28th March, 1930._

_...wondering as to the Earl's daughter's actions during the night in question. Miss Hester Carlisle's vivid account certainly seems to give food for thought, her findings quite conclusive. Despite its seemingly sordid nature, many will not be surprised by Lady Mary's conduct. Scandal seems to follow her wherever she goes. Her return to England late last year was rather unexpected - her New York set, the Rockefellers among them, being left without so much as a goodbye - and her late husband's suicide mere months ago left London shocked. Her late husband, goes without saying, is the publishing magnate, Sir Richard Carlisle, who rose from humble beginnings in Edinburgh to become one of the richest men in the country, famed for being as cutthroat outside of the boardroom as well as in it. Questions have also been raised as to the state of the Carlisles' marriage and to the welfare of their two young children by many close to the family, including their aunt, Miss Carlisle, who has been cut off from them, despite all her attempts at civility. No love seems to be lost between Lady Mary and her sister-in-law, as Miss Carlisle went on to say that Lady Mary has found her "next victim" in her bachelor cousin, Mr. Matthew Crawley, the heir to the Earldom of Grantham and its estate. Victim or not, there have certainly been reports in Yorkshire pertaining to an imminent engagement between the pair. If true, one cannot help but ask about the integrity of such a lady, Sir Richard having being buried only four weeks ago and having gone to such lengths to protect his wife from her secret ever..._

"Honestly, one would think the Telegraph wouldn't indulge in such malicious gossip!"

Violet didn't either bother raising an eyebrow as her son carelessly flung the newspaper beside her and resumed his pacing. "Whilst I would normally agree with you," She commented, ignoring his dubious look, "I think everyone here knows that this isn't merely gossip."

Mary almost rolled her eyes at her grandmother's tone, her grey eyes pointedly missing her. "No, it's the truth." She agreed, not ashamed to be candid about this.

Robert's eyes lit up as he stopped his pacing. "All of it?" His hopefulness blatant, Mary didn't need to ask for what reason. She shook her head imperceptibly at her father; he sighed dramatically and reclaimed his place at the window.

There was a moment's silence, barring the tapping of Edith's fingers against her chair. Anthony had sent her straight after breakfast, sure that her older sister would need support and comforting at such a difficult time. Edith hadn't the heart to tell her husband that she was probably the last person that Mary wanted to see at the moment. Though, to Edith's surprise, Mary had been far from distraught or, if she was, she was hiding it very well .She was epitome of calm - exasperated by her family's differing reactions and constant need to voice their opinions on the matter, yes, but calm about the matter herself, serenely so. It left Edith feeling a bit obsolete to the proceedings, in fact. She'd been convinced Mary would have it out with her and Papa would be forced to pull them apart, but so far no such yelling match had taken place.

"I suppose Mama's taken ill this morning." Edith ventured, risking a questioning glance to Mary who sat by the fireplace, quietly drinking her tea.

"Of course, dear." Granny answered distractedly as she put on her spectacles and reached for the paper. "I don't doubt that O'Brien's rousing her with my smelling salts as we speak."

Mary pursed her lips, knowing that they were all waiting for her to share her thoughts. The library had an uncomfortable air to it; her sister looked so self-conscious, Granny was as unfazed as ever and Papa stood rigidly, determinedly looking out of the window, his agitation coming off him in waves. Without Mama to fill the silence with her attempts at safe pleasantries, the silence was awkward at best. Setting her teacup aside, Mary bit the bullet. "I'm not quite sure what you want me to say." She shrugged lightly, but confidently, as her father turned around and Granny and Edith both looked up. "Clearly, Hester has found my character wanting and is doing her best to assassinate it. The article is exaggerated and viciously skewed, but it's all based on damning facts. It's all come out. The deed was done some time ago, yet now everybody knows." A small smile graced her face. The unthinkable had happened this morning, but she was still standing. Perhaps it wasn't really the unthinkable at all. "Everybody knows - and the world hasn't come crashing down around me."

No doubt Robert was pleased to see that his daughter hadn't allowed Hester's betrayal to affect her too badly, but he sighed unhappily as she seemingly dismissed all the implications. The world hadn't come crashing down? Though Downton was certainly the hub of his life, the world hardly centred on it. Everyone under its roof were either family or smart enough to know where their wages came from and to fear Carson's wrath; no one would speak out of turn. Down in the village, people were very protective of the Crawleys - many had seen Lady Mary grow up before their eyes - and would be quick to scold outsiders fishing for dirt on the subject and squash the rumours as best as they could. Any murmurs as to whether this story might hold a grain of truth would be kept in their homes. But _elsewhere_, in London...most would not be so generous. Didn't Mary understand there would be no escaping this? How many society mamas whose sons Mary had scorned and whose daughters they'd been pushing at Matthew would pounce on such a story? All it took was one person in decent society to accept this as truth and it would spread like wildfire and _that_, that was inevitable.

As the depression set in, hemlines were being brought down. The frivolities, recklessness and _fun_ of the twenties were being shunned and shunned quickly. Suddenly, everybody was moral again, and desperate to take their minds off the bleak future of their beloved country. A tale about an Earl's daughter, who went on to marry a well-known publishing millionaire, losing her virginity to a foreign dignitary who, lest one forgets, died in her bed would undoubtedly do the trick.

He rubbed his forehead, organising his thoughts. "Well, those who knew about it already will stay silent on the subject, as they should have done in the first place." His eyes slid to Edith, who blushed in return. "Those who love you will dismiss this as ludicrous, and the more astute among them will love you still in spite of it-"

"No doubt her bohemian chums in Bloomsbury will love her all the more." Violet spoke up wryly, her eyes back on the paper.

"_Hopefully_," Robert carried on, not in the mood for his mother's wit, "everyone else will follow suit."

"Papa, she's made the headline!" Edith couldn't help but splutter, wondering as to her father's naivety. "The Daily Telegraph are not going to publish something so salacious, if they were not sure of themselves! When Mary doesn't sue for slander - which she certainly has the funds to do but _can't_ because this would have to be false - everybody with an ounce of intelligence will accept it as gospel!"

Robert glared at his daughter, clearly telling her to be quiet. Despite his own thoughts on the matter, it wouldn't do to share them with Mary. Seeing the glass half empty wouldn't help in any way and was sure to only strain their relationship further. Suddenly realising this, Edith shot her father an apologetic glance; Mary almost barked a laugh as they exchanged looks: "You sound almost troubled by the idea." Mary said drily, daring Edith to look at her. She didn't.

Violet sniffed, pulling the paper back from her a little to appraise the photograph of her granddaughter. "With every other story about financial ruin these days, the Duke of Westminster's latest bride didn't even grace the front of the paper and you know how the Telegraph _adores_ a good wedding." Robert's eyes darted to his mother; she sounded almost impressed. "And I must say Mary, that you take a much prettier photograph, even at your age." The corners of Edith's mouth twitched at the backhanded compliment, as her grandmother continued her mutterings. "But then again, Benny's taste in women has always been questionable."

Robert scowled at his mother, squinting at the newspaper, knowing well enough that she was purposefully taking the conversation off course. This was not a time to make light. "Mama, _please_..."

Violet didn't care for the sound of his tone and her own sharply turned prim, as she sat up and gave her son a hard stare. "If our family's reputation is to be marred by scandal Robert, I would have us be infamous for it."

"Always the competitor." Robert barked a laugh, shaking his head, his smile humourless. "Mama, there are some races I don't wish to partake in."

"_You_ are not partaking in anything." Mary said firmly, not wanting this to descend into a petty argument between mother and son. "The shame is all my own."

"Yes," Violet agreed, sighing wistfully and looking again at the paper, "and by the looks of things, it goes on to the second page."

Gritting his teeth, Robert turned back to the window, as Mary raised an eyebrow. Surprised when no one spoke up, Edith took it upon herself to question her grandmother's attitude. "Granny, how can you be cavalier about this?"

"Cavalier?" Violet blinked for a moment. Mary sighed inwardly at the Pandora's box her sister had opened. It was never wise to assume _anything_ when it came to the Dowager Countess and to actually articulate one's assumptions was downright foolish. Violet would inevitably correct the mistake - and also inevitably embark on a soliloquy when one word would do. She folded the spreadsheet and put it beside her, before removing her glasses. "No, when I was first informed about this incident and discovered that my sources were reliable, I was anything but cavalier. Now, enough time has passed for me - and surely for all of us - to regard this with a clear head." Robert sighed heavily as he felt his mother pause; she wanted to impart her wisdom and wanted everyone's full attention before she did so. He turned around reluctantly and made his way over to stand behind Edith's chair. Violet went on, satisfied. "Many people _will_ believe this - and would be right to do so. Edith is correct; Mary's silence is as good as admission. However, the mere lunacy of what happened works in our favour; some stories are simply too outrageous to believe and this might be one of them. Especially when one reads on to find out that this has all come from the unknown sister, and no one ever trusts a relative coming out of the woodwork - it just reeks of greed and desperation." Violet drawled, coming to rest upon her stick, her tone having taken on a snobbish air. Robert rolled his eyes at it and she pursed her lips, irritated. She shrugged lightly. "Barring all that, Mary has money coming out of her ears - you'll be surprised how quickly some forgive."

"Yes," Robert scoffed sarcastically, unsurprised by his mother's words, "because I want friends like _that_ for my daughter."

"Oh really, Robert, must you be so sentimental about it!" Violet snapped, tired of her son's stubborn insistence on taking the moral high ground. He may have thought it noble, but it was far from practical and it was good common sense more than anything else that Violet believed to be key to survival. To the survival of the country, to the survival of the aristocracy, to the survival of this house and, God _knows_, to the survival of this family and its reputation. As the Earl of Grantham, Robert took for granted his status. His status in the community - as the owner of an estate - he was most conscientious of and it was a responsibility he met with dedication and pride. But as for his status _in_ _society_ - Robert met it with scorn, leaving it all to his wife and considering it to be frankly superficial. He was like his father in that respect and it annoyed Violet no end. Did he believe that the cogs of his social life worked on the basis of perpetual motion? That his daughters would marry without any effort of his part, that his voice in the Lords would be heard no matter what? If his entire family became outcasts, would he not care? Of course he would, because despite his protests of going to London each season, Robert would still want - and expect - to see his Cambridge lot at the club, to go the opera with the girls and to dance with a pretty girl with a free space on her card.

Once upon a time, that pretty girl was an American with an impressive dowry. Finding a wife was the only hard work during the Season that Robert ever had - and he married a girl who thought rolling over a fox involved, in fact, _rolling_ it over.

The Season was still important and Mary needed to be able to show her face in London without fear of being burnt at the stake. It was in London that courtships were started, engagement rings bought, spinsters made and reputations tarnished. For Emily and Peter to succeed in later life, perhaps do well in business or buy their own estates, find suitable partners and so on, Mary needed to put on a brave face and get on with it. And Mary understood that. It was a pity, Violet thought, that her son didn't.

"It is _imperative_ that Mary continues to do the Season and does it well. Richard shot himself, which unfortunately excused her this winter," Mary could only blink at her breeziness, "but she cannot afford to cower. Mary's financial position means that she won't be banished from all decent circles. Her trespasses will be more or less forgiven and they'll right her off as eccentric and be done with it." Violet waited for her son's protests but none came. He only grimaced; he knew she was right. But the Dowager softened slightly at the worry etched into his features. Rather selfishly, he didn't want his daughter going to London - none of them did, but furthermore he feared for her going alone. As a widow, Mary was entirely at the helm of her own life - as well as the lives of her children - for the first time. She was grieving and moneyed and, though often indecisive, very capable of making rash decisions which she felt obligated to stick to because she needed to make a point. Violet looked at Robert, quite kindly. "You need not fear for Mary - she will return to us just as she was. And anyway, no gentleman will want to marry her for fear of death on his wedding night." Edith's eyes widened at the poor joke, but her father simply raised his eyebrows, dismayed that his mother thought such words to be of comfort. He glanced at Mary, expecting her to be blushing, but she remained - outwardly at least - unfazed. Compared to Hester's performance, Violet had been positively tame.

Violet, however, was not aware, or pointedly ignored, the looks around the room. Tapping her cane against the ground eagerly, she was content. Content that she'd put Robert in his place and given Mary something to think about before her return to London. Some would try to crucify her, but as long as Mary didn't falter and held her head high, all would be all right in the end. The past would be forgiven, if not forgotten. _Nulla manus belli, mutato judice, pura est._ Her governess would roll it out every time she had fought with Roberta, each bickering over the truth. _Neither side is guiltless if it's adversary was appointed judge_. Mary was no longer simply the eldest daughter of an Earl; she was the widow of an exceptionally powerful businessman who now had millions at her disposal and had spent the last decade building connections and making friends with other powerful people. Whilst Edith had kept socially to Yorkshire and Sybil had no cares for being _social_ at all, Mary had become well-known within many circles, evidently worthy of a front and second-page spread. Someone who wasn't oblivious to the dirty washing of those bound to criticise her. The ton would welcome her back - though hardly with open arms - lest Mary spill some of their own secrets. Letting her eyes fall on her oldest granddaughter, still poised and stoic in her chair, Violet felt a surge of pride which was somewhat odd considering the circumstances. Whilst Cora was probably wailing in her room and Robert couldn't keep still for his concern, Mary had stayed calm and accepting. A smirk briefly lighting up the aging Countess' face, Violet remained content - finally, there was another woman in the family able to take care of matters in that delicate way only a woman could.

"_Buoyant..."_ Robert breathed, in awe that it was a scandal and the potential of family _ruin_ that had his mother smiling and the most talkative she'd been in weeks, " - that is how I would describe you today, Mama." He sighed wearily, as she raised a daring eyebrow; he was too tired to verbally spar with her. "We haven't had a chance to wake up yet."

"Well, I think we are all awake now." Mary pointed out, her eyes twinkling.

Her father hummed noncommittally, decidedly not amused. Coming away from the back of Edith's chair, Robert came to sit beside his mother and opposite Mary, he leant forward on his knees, looking at his daughter most seriously. "Your grandmother has a point." He conceded. "Your wealth will ease the scorning considerably - but you wish to go back to that? _No_ _one_ in Downton would give this any credence!"

Mary doubted that highly, but let it slide. "Then everyone in Downton are foolishly unsuspicious and you know that I cannot stomach a fool." She said calmly, a small smile coming to her lips. He smiled briefly in acknowledgement, but his heart wasn't in it. Still, she couldn't let him hold on to this hope. She was leaving. "This hasn't changed my mind, not in the slightest."

After having deemed their Kensington home unacceptable - the impulse purchase on Richard's part of a rather vulgar building - and gone back and forth from London many times in the last week in search of the right house and the right schools, Rosamund had extended the invitation for Mary and the children to stay with her indefinitely at her house in Eton square as she continued her search. Mary had been hesitant in her acceptance; Aunt Rosamund was, simply put, a more agile take on Granny and they could both be quite trying. Not to mention the fact that Rosamund - having never had children of her own - hadn't come by the patience and humouring often needed when with Emily and Peter. The last time she'd seen Peter, she'd shook his hand; he hadn't quite understood. Still, it would make things far easier and if it did all prove to be a disaster, surely it would spur Mary on to be quick about finding a home for the three of them. She wouldn't let her father talk her out of this...otherwise she'd never leave.

"I cannot hide in Yorkshire forever." Mary continued resolutely, trying to reason with her father. "And I won't be deterred from enjoying the Season again."

"London, be hanged!" He complained, rather petulantly throwing his hand and provoking a sour look from his mother. Mary bit her lip to stop a smile; it was endearing how much her Papa wanted her and the children to stay, really. He sighed unhappily, berating himself. "- I should have _never_ let that dreadful woman stay."

"Papa, this is no one's fault but my own." Mary said determinedly. He looked ready to challenge her, but a glare from her quelled him. She tried to complicate him, shrugging lightly. "Frankly, I feel as if a cloud has been lifted. The ghost of Mr. Pamuk can be finally laid to rest."

Robert bristled at the mention of the gentleman's name, but said nothing. Violet looked up sharply. "Why, is he restless?" She asked, not missing a beat. "I cannot think how - I imagine it to be every man's dream to die whilst-"

"Mother," Robert interrupted, nigh on horrified, his daughters eyes both taken aback, "- why don't we take our walk on the lawn?" He suggested, getting to his feet suddenly. There wasn't going to be any changing of Mary's mind and he thought it best to remove his mother before she fell into a series of mean retorts. This whole episode had left him exhausted.

"I'm not Isis, Robert," She snapped. "- I don't need _walking_." He didn't reply, but gave a look which verged on pleading. A fleeting look at Mary and Violet knew she'd embarrassed her granddaughter. Her jaw clenched a little in embarrassment herself; it was all so long ago, yet she'd rather forgotten the delicate nature of the matter. "But you do, so I'll go." Violet allowed, to the relief of her son. Still, rising slowly from her seat, she couldn't resist one last jibe, her cane coming up to tap her son's abdomen gently. "Too many of Mrs. Patmore's pork pies, I think."

Heaving a heavy sigh and shooting a withering glance at his daughters, Lord Grantham again bit his tongue, as he took his mother's arm and helped her from the room. Mary and Edith, too, kept quiet, sat away from each other but on each other's sides, their eyes not able to meet unless one of them turned their head. Nevertheless, Mary could see, out of the corner of her eye, Edith flutter her eyelashes and sigh, almost dazed, as if in awe at the ridiculousness of this family, and take to her own cup of tea.

Mary clucked her tongue; it was always best to have it out with Edith and to beat her to the punch. Turning to her sister, she folded her hands casually. "You are free to gloat." Edith looked to Mary, frowning prettily, cup in hand. Mary raised a dubious eyebrow at her innocence. "You were right - I should have listened to you with regards to Hester."

Edith's face painted the picture of _oh, that!_, but her slightly quirked lips at the teacup's edge told Mary all she needed to know. Edith was relishing in it, but Mary conceded she had the right. Putting the cup back to the saucer, Edith frowned again, curiosity taking over from the smugness. "Are you really going to London?" She ventured. "Don't you think you should lie low for awhile, wait for it to blow over?"

"I'm not going to allow _this_ to ruin my plans." Mary said somewhat haughtily, tired of her sister's - and father's - suggestion for her to run away from it all. She sighed inwardly, as Edith blinked, clearly not expecting to fight. "I used to worry so much about what people thought; I don't anymore." She explained, a dry note entering her voice. "I've seen too much this year to be afraid of the opinions of people about whom I couldn't care less."

Edith smiled politely, but Mary tilted her head at her sister's pensive expression. Edith's eyes flickered to the newspaper across from them. "Richard went to such pains to protect you..."

"Yes." Mary agreed at Edith's allusion to his buying of her story and his investigation of Turkish politicians. "He's..." She swallowed, remembering to correct herself, "..._was_ my husband. He loved me."

"And I am your sister, and the reason why this is all happening."

That had Mary dumbstruck. Edith felt guilty and was being sincere about it. Perhaps her sister truly was sorry for what she'd done. "...You wouldn't have had anything to put in a letter," Mary replied a moment later, relying on the wry tongue of hers, "if I hadn't proved myself to be a woman of easy virtue."

"Don't say that." Edith rebuked her quietly; Mary blinked, again surprised. Edith licked her lips nervously, her eyes going to the floor to Mary once more. "I am sorry, you know."

"Are you?" The question was out of her mouth before she had time to check herself; Mary chided herself for sounding almost anxious.

"Yes. I wasn't in the moment, nor even as time went on," Edith confessed, putting her saucer back on a side table, needing the distraction, " - I naively put aside all the ramifications of this."

"So did I." Mary breathed sardonically, feeling her insides aching for laughter. If there was a moment in life _not_ to throw caution to the wind, it was when a complete stranger entered your bedroom unannounced with the desire to make love to you. Overcome by lust, excitement, or perhaps merely the need to have _something_ happen in her life that was monumental, Mary ignored her conscience and went along with it. She went along with it and had had all of its consequences hanging over her head, until today. _Today_, there was nothing left to expose and no one would be able to hold it over her ever again and that feeling was a balm to her soul. In this light, forgiveness was so easy to give. "Your letter led to whisperings, but it didn't change anything; I would have lived my life the same way." She assured Edith, before making a confession of her own. "I was...cruel to you, to put it mildly," Mary admitted remorsefully, "- it was only natural to want revenge."

Which, in turn, seemed to go some way in soothing Edith. She nodded slowly, acceptingly. When it came down to it, they had both been spiteful to each other, not out of any true spite, but because they had both been unhappy with their own lives. And Mary's dealings with her sister-in-law were of much the same ilk. "This isn't about you." Edith said suddenly, her sister blinking up. "Hester's felt shunned by her brother for years, but he's not here anymore to attack- so she's decided that you'll suffice."

She let that settle for a moment and Mary soon shook her head slightly, rather bemused by the revelation. She rose an eyebrow in good humour. "Have you always spoken such sense?"

A smirk came to Edith's lips as she feigned thinking about it. "I like to think we only tear chunks out of each other when we're assured of an audience."

Mary narrowed her eyes at how collected her sister suddenly looked. "Mama's right about you - you are a force of good in this county; you've made quite a life for yourself."

Edith almost grimaced at the compliment; being a force for good in the county wasn't what had put a smile on her face these last few weeks. It was anticipation, the excitement of new beginnings. "Hmmm," Edith started, not quite agreeing, a little nervous to inform Mary of her plans. "Anthony and I were thinking of buying a yacht, taking Margo out of school and sailing from Portsmouth to the Outer Hebrides to who knows where." Mary's eyes widened at such a declaration, but she kept quiet as her sister seemed to debate over her next words. "For better or for worse, having you about..." Edith trailed off, before shrugging dismissively, " - well, our parents are quite capable of living their own lives as we should."

Mary couldn't help but frown for a moment - was she supposed to agree or say you're welcome, was her sister even thanking her? No, no she didn't think so, but Edith seemed grateful, at first, before she pushed it away. Edith wanted to travel and had actually made plans; that was a turn up for the books. Why on earth she wanted to see the Outer Hebrides of all places, Mary hadn't the faintest clue, but still...in some bizarre way, Mary's presence at Downton and all the insolence and determination she'd brought with her, the refusal to allow her parents to have too much influence over her and such, it had affected Edith. And whilst, before, Mary's lifestyle and decisions had irked her and left her with resentful and more than a little bitter, Edith had been given the push she needed. Death had lingered over this house since Christmas and it was proving to be motivational. One only had a single chance in life and there was no point in wasting it.

Following her mother's example and agreeing with her father hadn't earned Edith any more respect or more of her parent's pride, so what was the point of it? At last, she'd come to realise that winning her parents' approval was meaningless, because her sisters weren't interested in competing for it. Sybil had been living her life for herself for years and, with Richard's death, Mary was on the road to doing the same. Seeing the world had always took hold of her imagination - probably naively so but did that really matter? - and Anthony liked a good adventure and so cherished his wife that he could refuse her nothing.

"You'll be missed." Mary said, her eyes glinting at how Mama would receive this news and not quite bringing herself to say that she might miss her sister personally.

Edith didn't bother voicing her doubts on the matter. She tilted her head to see Mary's eyes drawn back reluctantly back to the newspaper across from them, as if might suddenly spring up. Licking her lips, Mary looked back to her sister ruefully before adopting a scowl. "Her _concerns_ as to the children's _welfare_..." The scowl was disparaging, but still she bite her lip. Apparently, Mary wasn't completely calm in all of this. Kemal Pamuk mattered little to her anymore, but her job as a mother meant everything. To have that questioned...well, she hadn't been at her most confident recently.

Edith softened inwardly, but - in a rare display of empathy with her older sister - she kept it from her expression. It would seem too much like pity and Mary despised being pitied above all things. So, Edith rolled her eyes dramatically, dismissing Mary's worries. "Please, if you've been a poor mother, then I've been atrocious." She quipped. "My daughter's bite is worse than her bark - there aren't many who can say that."

A snort from Mary told her she'd been successful.

* * *

><p><em>29th March, 1930.<em>

By the afternoon, Mama had recovered, and Mary - what with all her packing - hadn't had much time to devote to that morning's newspaper. In fact, she could almost put it out of her mind entirely; no one wishing her ill at Downton. The embarrassment, the shame, the guilt, - none of it had gripped her as she thought it would. It was all so long ago and she'd moved on from it.

Until the _next_ morning. When Mary walked down the staircase to find Isobel alone, sat in the hall by the fireplace.

Faulting on a step, as she considered turning back, Mary blanched as Isobel's eyes snapped to her, not blinking until she descended. As if she, too, suspected Mary of running back up the stairs.

Of all the people to see straight after breakfast, Isobel was rarely high on the list these days. The relationship between the two women had been strained for months. Isobel, having always been perceptive to Mary's and Matthew's feelings for one another, had pleaded with Mary since before Christmas to give her son a chance to find love and be happy. Mary had dismissed all her well-founded concerns as she tended to her dying husband. Now, neither knew what to say to each other. Mary empathised, of course. She could only imagine how she would feel if it were Peter who had suffered in love - she would want to see the back of the girl, whoever she was. It was all a terrible shame, really. She and Isobel had grown so much closer during the war, as Mary often invited Isobel up for luncheon or went down to Crawley House for tea, before Matthew's mother had quitted Yorkshire for France. And, then again, when Matthew had been injured, they had helped to share nursing duties before Lavinia had once more entered the frame.

Isobel would not be so blind as to declare Matthew blameless in all of this - Mary and he had _both_ injured each other, but she was adamant that there was a limit as to what a heart could take.

Mary tried to inwardly compose herself as much as she could as she came closer to where Isobel sat, praying that the older woman was here to say goodbye and nothing more. She could imagine Isobel's opinion of her _now_. Mrs. Crawley was a kind-hearted, generous woman, undoubtedly, having done much for destitute fallen women through her charity work, but Mary wryly doubted whether Isobel would desire such a _fallen_ woman for a daughter-in-law.

"Good morning." Mary blurted, trying to sound cheerful. "Are you waiting to see Mama or..."

"No, Matthew has work tomorrow, so he thought we should say our goodbyes now." Isobel enlightened her, her own tone far more reserved. "He's in the yard with the children - he has a surprise for them."

"Of course he does." Mary replied, her expression good-naturedly belying _how Matthew of him_, but the older woman wasn't having any of it.

Folding her hands, Isobel saw to cut straight to the chase. "I must say, I was...rather shocked to find you on the front page of my paper yesterday." Her eyelashes battered quickly, clearly agitated. "Matthew didn't seem to share in my astonishment."

The smile suitably fell off Mary's face, but she held her head high. Though Isobel was perhaps the last out of the family to know of the story of Mr. Pamuk, she was certainly not in the appropriate familial position to demand answers. "Matthew had already been made privy to...it." There was no need to clarify what _it_ was.

"I see." Isobel replied tersely, unsatisfied but deciding to leave it at that. But blinking up at the young woman, she went on to the next bone she had to pick with Mary. "He's quite distraught at your leaving, you know."

"I know." Mary's eyes dropped, albeit for only a moment, to the floor.

"So are you planning on stringing my son along indefinitely or is there an agreed finish line to all this?" Isobel asked sarcastically, holding on to her temper.

"We've _agreed_ to take things slowly." Mary replied, her nostrils flaring as to why Isobel thought it any of her business at all. "I need some time away from Downton and truthfully, the children aren't ready for another father with Richard's death so fresh in their minds."

At the mention of the children, Isobel was duly abashed, sniffing as she looked to her hands and then to the vestibule, squinting against the mid-morning sun. "I know we haven't seen much of each other over the years, Mary," Isobel tried, doing her best to let go of some of her frustration and have a heart-to-heart with the girl who had captured her son's, "but I once thought us friends and friends should be frank with one another, yes?" She paused for effect, Mary only raising her eyebrows expectantly; Isobel was going to go on regardless, Mary didn't see the point in agreeing. "I love my son, he is all that I have in the world and I am sick and tired of seeing him miserable. _You_ have the power to the change that. "

"I love Matthew, too." Mary retorted, not even considering that Isobel had never heard such a confession from her. "Don't think that I don't."

Any surprise at Mary's words, however, was masked, as Isobel glowered at her from her seat."But not enough to put him out of his misery." She said solemnly, giving Mary a chance to speak up. But Mary, again, said nothing. Frankly, she'd said little in the entire exchange and Isobel clucked her tongue, aggravated as she got up from where she sat. Mary tried to stay composed, but she swallowed a little. Isobel's irritation was palpable and Mary could tell that she was trying to avoid snapping. Slapping her gloved hand against her leg, Isobel heaved a sigh and glared at the other woman. "If this hemming and hawing is to come to nothing, I wish you would tell him now." She shook her head and went on, pointedly. "It's not too late for him to find someone else."

Mary blinked. She hadn't expected Isobel to take that turn and, without any ego at all, she hadn't really considered Matthew being with anyone else for months. And her mouth went dry at the thought of it. Seeing she'd stunned Mary into complete silence, Isobel softened and came closer- she didn't want things to be sour between them. She cared for Mary and the children, but she'd also seen the effect this...limbo was having on her son and she didn't care for it.

"Come, let us part on good terms." Isobel sighed, grasping Mary's elbow and kissing her cheek in a truce. Mary let it all happen, her mind still caught on Isobel's last words. "Take care of yourself." She tried a smile, but ended up patting Mary's arm awkwardly. "I think that I'll leave Matthew to it."

And, that's precisely what Mrs. Crawley did. She left Mary in the hall, frozen to the spot with too many thoughts whirling around her head and bitterly regretting how she and Isobel were leaving things. Looking to the rafters, Mary grimaced. She'd been so used to putting water under the bridge with family as it came for her to leave that, to experience a frustration - an aggression, even - that was so fresh, seemed quite alien to Mary. For her sisters, her parents and even Matthew, many wounds were old ones and time was doing its best to heal them. But, for Isobel, not entirely aware of her son's private suffering and longing for Mary over the years, it grieved her to witness her son's life being almost dictated in recent times by his love for one woman . Little did she know, that that love had dictated his life for an entire decade. What were a few more months to Matthew in the grand scheme of things, if Mary could come back to him, ready and willing to start the next chapter - or rather more, the entire bloody second act - with him by her side.

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><p>Eventually shaking herself out of her stupor, it hadn't taken Mary long to guess where Matthew and the children might be on the grounds. The stables were the obvious choice. In a last ditch attempt to convince Mary to stay - or rather to have the children beg her to -, her father had been rather sneaky and purchased an old pony for the use of all his grandchildren. He'd been christened Zeus; a disproportionately mighty name for a Shetland in Mary's opinion. Peter, who'd never quite taken to horses as his sister had, had immediately fallen in love and had proudly showed off the dear thing this week to anyone and everyone.<p>

Espying the threesome as she nodded in greeting to Lynch, Mary's interest was piqued to see that it was _another_ dear thing, which had instead demanded their attention. In Emmy's arms and being lavished with kisses, she couldn't get quite a good look at it, but as she neared, Mary spotted long ears, soulful eyes, a panting tongue. Seeing their mother, Emily and Peter turned to Mary, both grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh Mama, isn't he perfect?!" Realisation dawned on Mary's features at Emily's exuberance. This was the surprise. Matthew had bought them a _puppy_, irresistible to children of course, but it would hardly fall to the children to look after it. That son of a...Her eyes shot to Matthew warningly, his triumphant smirk only irking her further.

"You _didn't_..." She said warningly, praying that she was mistaken.

"Matthew bought him for us," Peter supplied, rubbing noses with the poor thing and eager for Emmy to let him hold the dog, "- to take back to London!"

"I _did_." Matthew said unashamedly, his smirk now a confident grin.

She opened her mouth to scold him, to insist that he take the puppy back, but Matthew jerked his head to the children, pointedly. Mary could have killed him for taking such liberties, but looking at the excitement on the children's faces, she sighed heavily. To battle over it would be foolish, the war had already been lost. They'd both clearly spent the morning bonding with him, probably already named the little fellow and to take him away now would be only cruel - they'd hate her for it and she would hear of nothing else until they reached London and then some. Begrudgingly, she could also admit to herself, that he would certainly help ease their transition and soften the blow of leaving their beloved grandparents, Granny Violet, Carson and, lest one forgets, old Zeus. Yet, Mary remained concerned. Emmy and Rabbit had never exactly shown a great affinity for keeping their pets alive and forgetting to feed a budgie or accidently chopping in half a snail was certainly less tragic than inadvertently killing a puppy.

"It's a he, then?" Mary inquired, accepting her defeat and ignoring the widening of Matthew's grin. "Does _he_ have name?"

"Well, considering the penchant in this house for pets' names being inspired by classical antiquity," Matthew filled in for her, the smirk coming back to his lips. Mary frowned, he certainly seemed up to something, "- we've been thinking along the same lines. Something heroic."

"Such as?"

"Perseus." Emily chimed in, rubbing her cheek against the little dog's head as Mary's eyes widened. Mistaking her mother's shock for ignorance, Emily sighed dramatically, but was more than happy to explain. "You know, the son of Zeus who cut off Medusa's head and rescued Andromeda from a horrid sea monster-"

"Yes," Mary stopped her, flushing at Andromeda and memories of sparring across the dining table. "I am acquainted with the exploits of Perseus."

Peter grinned, none the wiser. "We're going to call him Percy, for short."

"Percy the puppy," Matthew grinned, his brow flicking up playfully, "- it has a delightful ring to it, don't you think?" There was no pretence about it; he was goading Mary and revelling in it.

Mary narrowed her eyes at his childishness, but had more important things to discuss with him before they parted ways. "Why don't you two go inside and show off Percy to Carson?" Mary smiled at the children. Peter smiled back in agreement, but Emily halted, her eyes darting between her Mama and Matthew, assuming the latter was to be scolded for giving a dog and instructed to take it back. Mary rolled her eyes in exasperation at her daughter's suspicions, clever enough to know her mother wasn't pleased, but still off the mark."You can keep the dog - we'll be with you in a moment." She promised. Half-satisfied, Emily allowed her brother to drag her back to the house. Mary watched them go before turning back to Matthew, an eyebrow raised. "Could you be any more obvious in your attempts to buy their affection?"

"Probably not," Matthew shrugged unfazed, "but it's working - who can say no to a basset hound's soppy face?" He wrinkled his nose playfully bringing a reluctant smile to Mary's lips. Though he quickly sobered, bereft that he wouldn't be seeing that smile again for a while. "He's...something to remember me by."

Mary sighed; he looked so forlorn. She shook her head, dismissively. "I don't even know if the move is permanent. Aunt Rosamund is anxious enough about the fact that I'm bringing _children_ with me, God knows how long she'll put up with us now we have a dog in tow," She joked, wanting to put a smile on his own face, "- within days we'll surely be turfed out and forced to return home.

"So this is home, then?"

Matthew sounded all that was innocent and anxious, but Mary half-heartedly glared at him for the remark. Of course it was home - he knew that. But his implication was clear; if this was home, then why the hell was she leaving? Matthew stared openly back, casually putting his hands in his trouser pockets. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve _that_ look; to his mind, he'd implied nothing out of sorts. If Mary had inferred something...well, that was all her own matter.

Her eyes soon narrowed, questioningly. "It all petered out with Miss Litton, did it?"

Matthew's head jolted back in surprise at the sudden turn in Mary's thoughts and at that thought in particular. Miss Litton? He knew who she was, but he struggled to put the face to the name well. She'd been very pretty, they'd spoke at length at the Christmas ball and - quite shaken and guilty at having kissed Mary that night - had taken her out for tea and sandwiches before she'd headed back to London. He'd, ashamedly so, avoided her advances ever since. Surprise soon turned to irritation; Matthew needn't look far for whoever had reminded Mary of Miss Litton. Mother had encouraged the match from the start. "You've been speaking to my mother." He said quietly, through gritted teeth and not quite decided on who he was frustrated with more - his mother, for bringing it up, or Mary, for supposing there to be any truth to it.

"I can't imagine that she was the one to lose interest." Mary carried on, too nonchalantly. Losing his patience, Matthew tutted and sighed. A more confident man might have been buoyed by a woman's jealous musings, but Matthew stood on too shaky a ground. Mary was leaving. There was no date set for her to come back - _if_ she ever did - and there was no agreement between them. No promises had been made, despite their assurances of loving one another. Matthew knew too well how easily they could be parted over something so silly, so trivial in the grand scheme of things. His pride had forced him to take back his proposal as the country went to war and his guilt pushed her away again after Lavinia's passing; he prayed that Mary wasn't as foolish as he. The apologetic flash in her eyea gave him cause to hope. She shrugged lightly; Matthew could seem pitifully boy-like when despondent. "I'm sorry," She offered, not wanting their words today to be bitter ones, "it's...I think the time apart might be good for everybody, not just I and the children." She tried optimistically."Think of it as an opportunity to decide if...well, if you're ready to take us all on, and when you return from Europe after the summer-"

_To take us all on?_ As if it were some task, some chore to be begrudgingly undertaken? He closed his eyes exasperated; Matthew sometimes wondered as to her opinion of him. "I'm not going to Europe anymore." He interrupted her, desperate not to see her dig a hole for herself.

"You've been excited about this for years!" Mary exclaimed, feeling her mouth go dry and things running away from her, "You've mapped out where you're going and-"

"Cousin Cora's kept you informed, I see." He muttered wryly, before raising a pointed eyebrow. "And don't be so quick to assume that _you_ are the reason that I'm not going. It's expensive, travelling - if you hadn't noticed, the market isn't what it once was." She narrowed her eyes at his sarcasm, but didn't reply, her arm jittering at her side giving away her agitation. Matthew appraised her, something quickly dawning on him. "You're panicking."

"Being married..." She ventured; her lack of a stubborn denial only confirming Matthew's assessment of things, "...being a father- it isn't all a bed of roses, you know." Her mouth stayed dry.

"Shouldn't I be the judge of that?" Matthew snapped. "I would do anything for you, Mary, and the children would be no more prepared for me being your husband if I married you tomorrow or five years from now. I wouldn't care if it was Pandemonium - we'd be together. You want me to go to Europe; I'll go to Europe - and you can come with me."

His tone certainly brook no argument and, for the first time in a long while, Mary could see that youthful stubbornness flash in his eyes, when he had seen things so black and white. Mary's heart swell to see it, but she still cursed him for his naivety. Hadn't he read the papers this morning?

"Right." She replied tightly, after a moment. "I'll book my tickets then, and fan the flames already setting ablaze my repute." Her tone decidedly calm, but her words dripping with derision.

A raised brow - he could see through her composure. Matthew tilted his head slightly. "Your father said that you didn't care for the opinions of ignorant journalists."

A flare of the nostrils - she could feel the disappointment coming off of him. Mary's eyes flashed warningly at his false judgment of her. "I have my _own_ opinions, Matthew. I don't owe anyone an apology, but I'd rather not worsen matters." She corrected him firmly, the calmness giving way to haughtiness. "My reputation can easily go to the dogs without the help of a jaunt to the Riviera with you this summer. Do forgive me, but I _care_ that my children are to be accused of having Madame Bovary for a mother!"

Matthew flinched as Mary's voice rose, briefly noting the pretty flush to her cheeks. How she went on and with such dramatics - Madame Bovary, indeed! And how contradictory she could be! This Mary didn't have anything in common with the mature and reasonable woman Robert had described to him earlier. He wondered if she'd simply been in a state of shock yesterday, but was more inclined to believe that it was _he_ that had Mary flustered rather than the Daily Telegraph. Himself, whatever Mother had said and Georgina Litton, he supposed. He wasn't sure, but he'd been right in his original conclusion; she _was_ panicking. Perhaps she thought arguing with him would make it easier to leave which, if true, would be completely ridiculous. And God, could Mary be ridiculous. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Matthew considered informing her that he'd never had any intention of going to the Riviera during his European tour, but he thought better of it.

A wise decision, too, as Mary followed Matthew's example and took a moment to breathe, which utterly deflated her, the impulse to argue gone. She shrugged helplessly. The mention of Europe...she'd heard of it last October, she assumed that Matthew had had it in the works for much longer. Mama had written it was all for his fortieth, brought on by a knowing that Papa wouldn't be around forever and if he didn't do it now, he never would. That he would cancel it all for her...It wasn't arrogant of Mary to dismiss his excuses of expense, if she hadn't come into his life like a hurricane, Matthew would be so looking forward to it, perhaps even meeting a pretty girl like Miss Litton on his travels to bring back to Downton. He owed it to himself to go.

"Europe is your dream, Matthew - not mine." Mary determined quietly. "I've seen enough of it and, for your own sanity, you need to leave Yorkshire for a month or two." He smiled begrudgingly at her words, but watched as her face grew even more contemplative. He frowned, as she reached out to clasp his hand gently. "I once said that you deserve better than someone who might ever resent you..."

"You did, yes." He agreed pointlessly, encouraging her to go on.

"...I deserve that, too."

His heart skipped a beat as her words clicked into place. Mary had been panicking, that he'd rushing things and how quickly everything seemed to be happening. Considering the whirlwind that had taken over Mary's life since her return, he might have been surprised if she hadn't panicked. But Matthew had been _so_ sure that everything - be it London or Europe or Miss Litton - had come from Mary's doubts about her feelings, her eyes peeled for any means of putting distance between them.

Mary had doubts about feelings, yes, but not of her own.

Not about whether Matthew loved her, he didn't think. Because she knew that. He'd said it often enough, she'd have to be obtuse not to. But rather, if those feelings - his love - would last a lifetime and trump everything. She could damn all of society and marry him now, if she could be sure that he wouldn't meet his Maker in another thirty years or so, confessing that he'd wished that he'd taken in the beauty of Florence for himself, _alone_, before the chance had escaped him. It was but one example, but it was one of many that had run through Mary's tireless mind. What if taking on Emily and Peter was too much to ask? What if Mary was too old to give him the children he wanted, the heir needed? Sacrifices are willingly made for those one loves, but should be made with one's eyes wide open. A summer away from each other would give Matthew an opportunity to really think about it all.

She had resented Richard many times throughout their marriage. Of course, she had; he hadn't been Matthew Crawley. Richard hadn't deserved it.

Mary didn't want Matthew to ever regret her - she wouldn't be able to stomach it.

Pursing his lips together, Mary's smaller hand still gently in his own, Matthew reached into his trouser pocket and took out a trusted friend, sensing more than hearing the small gasp from Mary's lips. Turning over the old toy in his free hand, he took a moment to appreciate how little its colour had faded.

The little dog that had been given in friendship. But had been about so much more. Matthew never had asked after its name.

Tentatively, he held it out to her. He finally dared to look her in the eye, as she finally put away the memories once more. "Not a scratch." He said, taking care. "Just as promised."

Mary's eyes fixed on him, not yet taking the dear toy from him. "You don't need it anyone?"

"You're taking up residence with your Aunt Rosamund," He said breathlessly, grinning nervously, "- I think you need it more than I do." Mary nodded, but still did not take it. "...It's always been you, Mary. Every coat, every jacket. Every day."

She took it then, her hand closing around the dog tightly.

He'd go to Europe and she to London. They wouldn't have the summer, but they'd have the rest of their lives.

**TBC...**

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><p><strong>Hope you liked it!<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

__**So here's the next installment! Enjoy and as always, please review, knowing you like it certainly encourages me to keep going!**

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><p><em><em>Chapter 14:

_30th March, 1930._

_Peter was sobbing his little heart out, her mother trying to kiss all his tears away. Emily's arms were wrapped around her father's neck, full of pledges that she'd call every other day and would do her best to look after Mama, her brother and, of course, dear Percy. Granny seemed determinedly unmoved, but did indulge her son with a farewell for Nicholas. Her lips quirked as Emily soon turned on Carson, declaring her love - assuring him that he needn't say it in return - and begging him to stop Margo from messing up the nursery. There was so much chatter - Mama's insistence that she hold her head high, Granny's quip that she stay clear of all suave foreigners. _

_She turned; she waited. She waited for whatever parting advice her father had to give. The women had certainly said their piece; even Anna had spoken up, encouraging her to do nothing more or less than have the time of her life. _

_A secret smile graced his face; she cocked her head._

_"You're ready. He said that I should let you go when you were ready."_

_She was sure that she stopped breathing at his words, as he kissed her cheek softly. He had no advice, no wisdom to impart. He had faith in her. So, seemingly, had Richard. She was ready._

_He nodded decidedly, good-naturedly. "Carry on."_

_She barely noticed herself at the car door. Carson's hovering, seeing them off just as he had welcomed them home. It was a warm presence, much like Downton. Even during the coldest winter, as those Yorkshire winds whipped past, chilling the bones, her heart was warmed by the promise of a roaring fire and afternoon tea._

_Her eyes flicked finally to his, as he anxiously watched the luggage be loaded. Before she could squash the impulse, the words leapt from her throat. "As Emmy said," she knew he didn't like it, always Miss Emily to him, but she couldn't find it in herself to care, "you don't have to say it - but we do...very much."_

_The lifting of that heavy brow told her that he was certainly taken aback, but not displeased, no."...And I you, milady." He was as surprised by his own words._

_The grin took over her face, as Rabbit pulled on her hand. She asked him to keep the Lady Granthams from killing each other in her absence, but : "I shan't make any promises, milady." _

_She looked back to the house, still searching it, wondering how one might find it imposing. How could she ever think of it as such? It was home. A home that never seemed to waver or alter, it was that timeless. If it weren't for her children already seated and bickering in the back of the motor, it could have been any given day, any given year, any given moment in time. Carson stood by the door, Mama and Papa waving, Granny and her cane. She could have been going off to enjoy her first season, she could have been going to say adieu to Patrick or to greet Mr. Matthew Crawley and his mother, to wave him back off to war, to the church to get married, to Haxby, to the States, to Richard's final resting place. She had more cares than ever before, but the abbey...well, it was all quite the same. She didn't dare to think as to what might yet be, what moments would have her in this very spot, and ducked into the car, with a bittersweet smile for her family. _

_Downton almost taunted her. She'd be back. Wouldn't she?_

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><p><em>10th May, 1930.<em>

"He's dead."

Mary blinked out of the memory and rolled her eyes: another classic observation. If her trip to the National Gallery with her children had taught her one thing, it was that Peter had as much love for art as a turkey had for Christmas. She supposed that she shouldn't be too surprised; she'd never been a great connoisseur herself and Richard had only ever bought on the assumption that something expensive _must_ be in good taste. Emily seemed interested, at least, and being ever perceptive, she knew that any painting here was probably important and painted by somebody probably important, because some other people - who were also probably important - considered it so. As for themes, it was always to do with love or death or an emotion of some sort and, after a few guesses, one was bound to have cracked it. But Peter just didn't see the point. One couldn't eat it or play with it, and it didn't do or make anything. Why bother looking at pictures of gods or battles or whatever, when one can make-believe and do all these things oneself? How could a painting ever hold a candle to the art of the imagination?

But whether her children enjoyed fine art hadn't really been on Mary's mind when she'd brought them here. That morning, after yet another trip to look at a school, Emmy had taken it upon herself to give Percy Nicholas to play with. Why she insisted on tormenting her brother so wasn't beyond Mary - she'd grown up with Edith, after all - but she'd rather they waited until they had a home of their own to do it in. With every house she'd seen having some defect that just couldn't be born, Mary's stay with her aunt had gone on for far longer than anticipated. Rosamund would never ask she and the children to leave, of course; they were family. However, the older woman's nerves were starting to fray somewhat. Rather than simply slobber all over him, Percy somehow managed to take Nicholas' arm off. The resulting screams and tears and general chaos was enough to drive anyone mad and Mary grabbed Rabbit and Emmy and made a hasty exit before her aunt had a stroke. Fortunately, the housekeeper was a lovely woman and promised to have poor Nicholas' arm reattached before they returned home. But _home_ it was not.

And so, Mary hadn't felt quite comfortable yet. In fact, she hadn't felt quite comfortable in London. Her mouth went dry as she heard another whisper of her name, her eyes flitting to two elderly women, who blushed at having been caught out. She hadn't let her mind linger on all the people to have surely read _that_ article in the Telegraph, but since she'd arrived in town, she thought of it often. Mostly, people merely frowned at her with recognition, unable to place her, but sometimes they would stare and whisper. She'd even had one gentleman mutter _whore_ as she passed. Not much of a gentleman, then. Granny had been right for the most part, though. Being rich did make one remarkably forgivable. And, in precarious times, their social stratum liked to comfort itself by being cocooned by money. Though slow to begin with, the invitations had come rolling in and, after dear Benny Grosvenor welcomed her with a wide grin and open arms, most others followed suit. She'd been to many parties over the last month or so and the children had happily watched their mother get ready from her bed. Still, it was funny how, even in a room full of people, one can often feel alone, or lonely. Mary wasn't sure which she was - and distracted herself as best as she could.

The National Gallery, it would seem though, was doing little to distract her children, as their squabbling endured. She sighed inwardly, as she felt her daughter stiffen beside her, her brother's comments having irked her all afternoon.

"He's asleep." Emily contradicted him through gritted teeth, not daring herself to look at Peter.

Peter frowned unconvinced, his eyes, too, still trained on the painting before them. He titled his head questioningly. "How can he be when the..." He frowned even further, "...hairy children are poking him with a big stick? He _must_ be dead!"

"They are not poking him!" Emily hissed, refraining from stamping her foot this time. Honestly, how could her brother be so obtuse?! "And they are..." She started, her understanding of art finally hitting a wall, "well, they're half..." She bit her lip, looking up to her mother questioningly, "half-goats? Mama?"

"That's right." Mary assured her, putting a hand to Emily's shoulder. "They're baby satyrs."

"Oh Mama," Peter drawled laughingly, "when have you ever seen a baby that hairy?!"

Emmy's eyes, horrified, darted to her mother, aching for one of them to scold Peter, but Mary shook her head gently, exasperated. "Alright, enough." She muttered, quite done in, turning her son away. "It's a Botticelli, not a sideshow - there's no need to gawk at it."

Mary sighed, as that befuddled frown graced his features for the umpteenth time. "I thought it was a painting!"

Rolling her eyes, she allowed a small smile to grace her lips as she encouraged her children to move on. She felt someone's eyes upon her, but ignored them as she had done so all day. "Mary?" But her eyes glanced up at the familiar voice, a familiar voice and a face sincerely delighted to see her: a rare sight, indeed.

"Mr. Napier!" She blurted, startled to see Evelyn Napier before her. She licked her lips, composing herself. "Or rather, should I say, Lord Branksome."

"I'd much rather you use Evelyn." He insisted, smiling and as polite as ever. His eyes quickly turned sympathetic. "How are you? I received your letter - so sorry that we couldn't make it."

"Oh, you and the rest of London." She raised an eyebrow, not wanting to think back to the sorry affair of Richard's funeral. She glanced to the floor, uncomfortably. "Anyway, it's_ I_ that should apologise - for bringing your name into all of it," She swallowed. "I assume you keep to the Telegraph?"

Evelyn frowned at first, but the recognition in his eyes and the embarrassed blush to his cheeks assured Mary that he knew of what she speaking. "Oh, _that_." For the first time, he really noticed the two little persons standing by her sides. He flashed the children a friendly smile, before shrugging amiably. "You do take a lovely picture." Mary's lips twitched at that, Granny had said much the same. "I would forget about all of that. Those who care aren't worth a moment of your time. Those who don't..." He grinned, clearly insinuating himself, "well, you take them out for dinner. And who do we have here?"

Mary smiled, thankful that Evelyn wouldn't judge her and sure that he was the only man in London she genuinely believed not to do so. When he'd come to clear his name and reveal that it had been Edith to send that infamous letter to the Turkish ambassador, she'd assumed that he'd had his strong suspicions - but he'd never said anything and she'd always been grateful for that. She looked down at her children, knowing Emily wouldn't miss an opportunity to introduce herself. Still, it would be better if her daughter wiped that scowl from her face. "Hello, I'm Miss Carlisle and this is my brother, Peter."

Polite, but dismissive. Evelyn's lips twitched with amusement: like mother, like daughter. "Miss Carlisle, I say." He said good-naturedly. "Well, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Mary smiled apologetically, tugging gently on one of Emmy's plaits in a beg to have her behave. "Emily's in a terrible mood, I'm afraid. We spent another morning looking at schools and nothing quite matches to Yorkshire's Queen Anne's." Emily looked at her mother, surprised that she'd cottoned on. "Any ideas?"

Evelyn blew out a breath, pensively. "There's always Channing's or...are you still living with Lady Rosamund?" Mary clucked her tongue as Peter let out a telling groan. Evelyn grinned down at the boy. "It's like that, is it? How about dinner this week? - _I'll_ play host." He insisted, seeing Mary waver. "I would be happy to - I hear you were awfully good with Winifred last week at Lord Manners, I know she can be tiresome."

"Winnie's good fun," Mary said quite automatically, before blinking. "- she's your wife, how can you say such a thing?!"

"Quite easily, and she'd be the first to agree." Evelyn said, without apology, that infectious smile on his lips once more. Mary couldn't help but wonder as to why he seemed so jolly. He'd never been stoic before, but always fairly reserved and dry - it was why they'd got along so well. Perhaps his temper had improved over the years, or perhaps she'd become more downcast herself. She didn't really want to think about it. "I'm terribly boring, too, you see - so we complement each other perfectly. How about it, then?" Knowing Mary hated committing herself, he looked back to the children. "My daughter Elizabeth has the most divine playhouse for you to amuse yourselves in."

Emily raised an eyebrow; she wasn't fixed on committing herself either. "Well, is she boring like her parents?"

"Emily!" Mary rebuked firmly her daughter's outspokenness, no matter how quick-witted it was.

"You'll have to decide for yourself." Evelyn answered her, amusedly. His eyes went to Peter. "Elizabeth also has my old train set - she'd be happy to show you how it all works."

Mary smirked, her mind straying back to their past letters and Evelyn's quips of arranging a suitable marriage between their offspring. "Time to bring your machinations into play?" She inquired, as Evelyn's smile turned guilty. "Forcing our children together will not bring about true love, you know."

"Who mentioned love?" He went on jokingly, his eyes lighting up. "They'd make a fine pair, you must admit. We'd have handsome grandchildren."

Of course they would, any grandchild of hers would be quite perfect, Mary knew, but she hardly thought that the point. She narrowed her eyes, her voice dropping too low for the children to hear."I suppose the fortune that my son stands to inherit is of no importance."

Evelyn had the good grace to feign affront at that remark, and shook his head. "Bringing up money in a cultural sanctuary like the National - Sir Richard really has left his mark." Mary's brow raised, but she didn't disagree. How could she? "Can you blame a father for wanting his daughter to make a good match?" She smiled at his little joke, her heart not in it. Her eyes drifted to Emily whose jaw had clenched uncomfortably at the mention of Richard and fathers. Peter stood happily, his hand in his mother's, intrigued by this cheerful man that knew his Mama. Evelyn didn't stay for much longer. He let Mary know of all the circulating gossip - who had their eye on who, who he saw at _this_ christening and at _that_ wedding. It was all the same - it was always the same - and her eyes glazed over as he spoke of it. The same, but it didn't hold the same interest as it once had, with Richard by her side. It all seemed so unimportant and superficial now. No, her heart wasn't in it. She had a feeling that she'd left her heart at Downton.

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><p><em>14th May, 1930.<em>

At hearing the door creak open, Violet was shaken out of her musings. Knowing everyone else to have gone to bed and thinking Robert and Matthew to be smoking their cigars, she asked a little wearily: "Carson, could you have a footman stoke the fire?" She took her cane in hand and turned in her chair. "I'm not quite ready to retire and it's starting to..." She trailed off, as Matthew Crawley came around her, smiling. "Oh Matthew, it's you." She said pointlessly, her apology for the mistake. "You're still here, then." Matthew's smile turned bemused, never sure what to make of her words, never sure whether she was pleased. He obligingly went to the fire and stoked it gently. Violet said nothing for a moment and watched him, equally bemused, waiting until he turned back to her. "Any work that you've saved a servant here is only making more for poor Moseley." Matthew raised a questioning eyebrow. "It's arduous - getting soot out of dinner jackets."

Matthew smiled guiltily and took to a chair. "Moseley will forgive me - and I wouldn't want you catching a chill."

Fiddling with her cane, Violet looked at him pointedly, displeased by the attention. She liked Matthew and knew that he could be good company, but she didn't care for how he took to his seat. She felt too much like an elderly relative, begging for people's time and affection. He had the look of a man who was indulging her and she didn't like it. "Everyone takes such fastidious care of me."

Her tone belied very well how she felt about that and Matthew naturally sat up straighter in his chair. This wasn't an evening for small talk, then. "I came to say goodnight and to thank you for the scarf again."

"Cora bought it in York, on my behalf." Violet informed him, softening at his thanks. "Cashmere - such a shame about the ghastly colour." Matthew went to reassure her, but she went on, undaunted. "I don't think that she picked it in that shade to spite me, she thought that you'd like that...motley green," She said, as if a smell was under her nose, "...which is worse in a way. Did you enjoy your birthday?" Her eyes glanced up at the mantelpiece clock, not quite yet midnight. "Or rather, your little celebration before your birthday tomorrow?"

"I did." He blinked at the question.

"Did you?" Violet replied, genuinely surprised. She sighed. "I haven't cared for my own in years. It's always marked as if an achievement of sorts, that I've survived another year." Matthew could only smile at her disdain. Her eyes flicked to the fire greedily. "Children's birthdays are a joy though, their faces lighting up as they open their presents. Mary always made an effort to look smart on her birthday, even when she was quite young." She turned to him, then, sure that he'd be interested. And he was pleased. Pleased that, rather than act as if Mary didn't exist as the entire family had done when Richard was still alive, the Crawleys were realising that it was acceptable to speak of her. More than that, speaking of her and sharing memories and indulging in stories was something to be encouraged because, despite no ring being yet on Mary's finger, everyone knew that Mary and Matthew had an arrangement. Things were finally starting to come together. "Then, she'd take the remaining cake to the servants. They liked that." Violet's eyes sparkling at the memory, when she was still mistress of Downton Abbey. "They liked _her_. They used to, at least. Mrs. Dawson always fawned over her - a late housekeeper," She clarified as Matthew frowned questioningly, "- and former footmen, too, and of course, Carson had more than a soft spot for her."

Matthew smiled gently. "He still does."

Her finger went momentarily to her lips, a clear indication that, however true, that was all they should say on the matter. Not simply lest a servant or Carson himself walk in, but because one didn't speak of such things. Mary and Matthew had many times, but they had yet to be in charge of things at Downton. That Carson would walk over hot coals for Mary was rather a given, but not a topic of conversation.

"Life's short, Matthew." Violet said suddenly. "Europe's wonderful," He smiled, thinking to his trip, "- in parts -" He stopped himself from rolling his eyes at her amendment, "and you should experience it to its fullest, and then - afterwards," She looked at him, most seriously, "you are to go straight to London and propose on bended knee to my granddaughter and not take no for an answer."

A slow smile spread across his face at the lady's instructions. "On bended knee?" He said softly. "Mine are starting to stiffen."

"Mary won't take you unless you do it properly." Violet insisted, clearly not thinking this a joking matter, "- and never make allusions to being old in my presence again. If you are old, then I must be antediluvian." She deadpanned; Matthew grinned. But that grin faded, as she grew pensive, her face looking almost - worried? He wasn't sure that he could describe it so. "The world has changed so very much. To arrange a marriage..." She glanced back at the fire, almost ashamedly, "...it was quite the done thing for our lot and in Mary's case, we deemed it imperative." She looked back to Matthew, a sad smile gracing her face. "Perhaps if we'd left her be, downstairs would love her just as they did when she was a child."

He understood her perfectly. When the family had put it to Mary to marry her cousin Patrick, they'd done her a great disservice. She'd never protested about it, so they had assumed that she was amenable to the idea, but in fact, the arrangement had changed her - and not necessarily in many ways for the better. Matthew knew that he couldn't, _wouldn't_ alter how Mary was for the world, but he did wonder how she might have been had circumstances been different and she'd been encouraged to follow her heart. In a way, having Matthew marry Mary put a lot of things right and how they ought to have been and the Crawley family knew that. Matthew appreciated that, but their general nervousness about the matter irked him. They all seemed lacking in confidence that he'd see it through or she'd say yes. As if her going to London may have been a case of out of sight, out of mind, and things would return to what they once more. He wished everyone would have a little faith. "Are you quite all right?" Matthew frowned gently. Violet _did_ look worried and it put him on edge to see it. "You seem..." She narrowed her eyes, ready to pounce on his choice of word; he went on, regardless, "...troubled."

"You will hold firm, won't you?" It was a question, but her tone certainly suggested that she wouldn't have anything less than agreement. "One of you has to and God knows how Mary's dithered in the past." Matthew opened his mouth to insist that things had moved on from sixteen years ago, but he thought the better of it. She'd only list off examples and he didn't want to hear that. He couldn't afford to be anything but hopeful. He nodded, agreeably. "Good. Then I have nothing to trouble me." She smiled pleasantly, seamlessly. "Now, if you could fetch Carson and inquire as to which room upstairs is mine, I would be much obliged."

* * *

><p><em>15th May, 1930...barely.<em>

Matthew closed his eyes for a moment after he hung his coat up, Moseley having long gone to bed. Any talk with the Dowager Countess was enough to send any head spinning, but tonight's had been odder than usual. Carson had been discreet about it all, seeing her up to her room, but it had left Matthew with a bitter taste in his mouth. Here was someone who understood better than most how precious time was. To see a woman, as fiery and opinionated as she, gaze haplessly into a fire's last embers and lament the past - it wasn't what he wanted for himself, for Mary, for anyone, really. He waited for it to worry him and to make himself doubt his future, but putting his hand naturally to his jacket pocket, his eyes fluttered open as he realised that it was empty. His faithful friend was back with his original master - or mistress, rather. How panicked she had seemed that he might want to be parted from it, how insistent she'd been that he be sure that he could marry her and be a father and all the rest of it. No, lamenting the past wasn't for him or for Mary and he'd never been so convinced in his life that all would make itself right and they'd be together, happy and in love. He glanced to the grandfather clock in the hall: midnight having been and gone. At last, it was his birthday and he was forty years old. His youth may have been behind him, but he knew that the best years were just around the corner.

"Whatever happened to you?" Isobel looked up from her book, smiling as her son eventually entered the drawing room. "You said that you'd be right behind me. One drink turned into many, I assume." She said cheekily, before allowing: "I suppose it is your birthday, just."

Matthew smiled at his mother's joke, but rubbed a hand over his tired face before taking to his armchair. "I was speaking with Cousin Violet, actually."

Isobel paused at Matthew's now pensive face, "I know that look," She sighed, putting her book to one side, " - what has she said now?"

"Nothing to frown about." He said firmly, not giving his mother an opportunity to rant. "Here and there, she becomes contemplative about everything, about life." He shrugged, somewhat sadly as he thought once more to the glimpses of frailty that had become part of Violet's character. "One's worst enemy is regret, apparently."

"She's pressing you about Mary, is she?"

Matthew's head snapped up at that, surprised his mother would jump to such a conclusion. "Why would I need to be pressed when I am more than willing?"

"Yes, the willing martyr to the cause of Downton." Isobel muttered, looking down to fiddle with her watch. "You know that is why they all delight in the match."

"Good Lord," Matthew blinked at how very resentful she sounded. "Whatever happened to my mother, the optimist?" That question only received a roll of the eyes. "Nigh on two decades we have lived here and you don't believe they care for me, for _us_?"

"Don't be silly - I know they do!" She rebuked at his dramatics. "As we care for them, but it is rather neat for everyone, isn't it?" She raised an eyebrow, and his irritated scowl and silence told her that she'd made her point.

"I don't understand you." He shook his head, more than a little exasperated. At Downton, they were worried that Matthew might not marry Mary, but here, his mother seemed grieved that he might. "When Mary hadn't yet married, you thought that I was a fool to let her go without a fight, and a petulant one at that." He shrugged helplessly. "What is so different now?"

"For you, nothing!" Isobel snapped, her fear making her sharp. "You watched Mary and Richard go off together and time stood still for you! They travelled the Continent, partied in London and lived a similarly extravagant life in America...they had children," Isobel swallowed. Her son was so utterly in love to Mary, so devoted to her - she was terrified that he was beyond seeing clearly. Did she believe that Mary loved her son? She did, but Mary's ability to question that love and to put it aside, to be swayed by family...Matthew had been unhappy for so long. Mary _had_ to be steadfast and if that was beyond her, then Isobel thought it best that they cut their losses, that her son withdraw whilst he still could. He nearly lost his life in a war; he didn't survive that, just to lose his soul now. "Do you truly believe that she regretted it all as much as you did?"

Matthew scratched his forehead, exhausted. He'd come up against wall after wall and he was sick of trying to persuade people and explain himself. He loved his mother, but he knew that she couldn't possibly understand what Mary and he had. Had Mary been happy in her marriage, whilst he pinned after her from afar? Probably, but if Lavinia had survived and they'd married - which they would have done, despite his feelings - he supposed that they would have found a way to be happy, too. It didn't mean that Mary and he loved each other less, but that was life. Mary had Emmy and Rabbit who were her everything - of course, she couldn't regret it.

"Does it matter?" He asked quietly, after a moment. "That was then and this is now. I love Mary and..." A gentle smile, a secret smile spread across his face almost in sheer wonderment at how unexpected his fortieth year had been so far, "do you know, she loves me as well. Since she left, everybody has been walking around, crestfallen - Cousin Violet fears that I'll have to drag her up the aisle - and..." He looked at his mother imploringly. "I'm not worried. For the first time, I'm not scared about it. I trust her and I have trust in the love that we have for each other and if you do not," He raised a hand to halt any protests she may or may not have, "then that it your own affair, Mother. I can only hope that you will get used to it. Because Mary Carlisle is going to be my wife and we're going to be very happy and I would love it if you were happy for us."

He looked certain and Isobel so desperately wanted to be pleased for him, because if it all came true, then she would be overjoyed and yet..."I don't want you to be heartbroken again." She sighed tearfully. "I won't be able to bear watching it. What if she-"

"Mother," He stopped her calmly, kindly, "- be happy for me, please."

Isobel sighed again, knowing that she had a choice before her. She shook her head inwardly at herself - interfering with her son's life and questioning his choice of wife...she'd clearly picked up bad habits from Downton. She'd always prided herself on being supportive, regardless of her own opinions. If it all went pear-shaped, she'd be here to pick up the pieces, but how could she possibly be anything but be pleased at how _happy_ her son looked in this moment - and how desperately he wanted his mother's blessing. "I was terribly short with her before she left." She said guiltily.

"That's alright." Matthew grinned with certainty. "She'll be back."

* * *

><p>Mary, too, came home late and to a quiet house that night. She took off her mink coat, residing it on the hall table and sighed in relief as she took off her heels, aching from an evening of dancing. So thankful to have seen his friendly face, she'd thought it rather poor form if she didn't take Evelyn up on his offer. He and Winnie had taken her for dinner and then to one of their favourite clubs in Mayfair where many of their chums were already dancing the night away. She had found it all very nostalgic to see so many faces from her debutante days. It had been fun, or at least, it <em>should<em> have been fun. Evelyn might have accused his wife of being tiresome, but Mary couldn't help but notice how at ease they were with one another, how he went to touch her elbow and saw to her comfort, how pleased he was when she laughed at his jokes, how there was no one he would have rather danced with more...

Mary bit her lip unhappily, guiltily. She'd thought that it would have made her miss Richard, but it hadn't. She missed him often obviously, but he'd never felt entirely at ease with her lot, despite his attempts. In truth, London hadn't been somewhere she remembered fondly with regards to her marriage. Richard had had a string of women and Mary had had a miserable birth with Peter. In fact, Richard didn't calm down until America. The American Dream - well, he'd lived it, hadn't he.

No, tonight, Mary had thought only of a certain gentleman who was waiting for her more than two hundred miles away. She had thought only of Matthew.

Glancing down to her watch, Mary saw it was gone one in the morning and wondered what he was doing, if he was still up. She rolled her eyes at herself, how girlish she sounded. Her eyes fell to the telephone in the hall - she couldn't, could she? Then, the decision was taken quite out of her hands as she heard yapping and Matthew's dearest little gift almost slid across the marble floor to greet her.

"It's me, yes." Mary whispered smiling, picking up Percy and planting a kiss on his head. No matter how hard she'd tried, Mary had grown rather attached to the puppy. Cradling him in one arm, she hushed him to be quiet, as she impulsively picked up the receiver, holding it with her shoulder as she dialled the number."I know, my darling." She assured Percy, swallowing as she prayed it would be Matthew to answer.

"_Hello?"_

Her eyes closed with relief, that it was him - and to hear his voice again. "Happy Birthday." She smiled to hear a soft sigh down the line.

"_You remembered_."

"I did say that I'd call," She reminded him playfully, "- Did you open your present?"

"_I did, just this very moment. Thank you. I daren't guess how much it cost. And I'd never have thought it to be a Turner_."

"It's a later work." She informed him, brushing away his berating tone for spending so much money on him. She had spotted it in a gallery and known that he would like it; cost had been an afterthought. "I hoped it would surprise you."

"_It's nice to hear your voice_." Another contented sigh, and though she wore a backless dress and there was a definite chill downstairs, she knew it was his words which sent shivers down her spine. She needn't have bought him anything, having her call was the best birthday present he could have wished for. "_I miss you. How are the children?"_

She grinned, pleased that he'd asked. "Determined to wreak havoc wherever they go. They want to call you tomorrow - or rather, today - serenade you with 'for he's a jolly good fellow' or something like that. "

"_I look forward to it."_

Mary straightened up as she espied a familiar figure coming down the stairs, not yet dressed for bed. "Rosamund's snooping," She whispered reluctantly. "I better go." She paused for a beat, questioning herself, but bit the bullet. "I love you." She blurted, putting the receiver sharply back in its holder, not daring to hear his reply.

"A telephone call at this hour." Rosamund observed casually, as she made the way to the bottom of the stairs. Her spectacles in her hand, Mary could only assume that she'd come down to find a book. She smiled pleasantly, praying to be spared the inquisition. "My, I can only assume it's Robert to say that Mama has finally breathed her last."

Mary raised a wry eyebrow. "With Uncle Hugh taking her to the opera next week?"

"And for dinner at the Savoy." Rosamund noted, petulantly jealous. "I think Cousin Shrimpy is hoping to remembered in the will, not that Mama has all that much to bequeath - unlike you." Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "No, she'd never die when due an evening's entertainment at someone else's expense." Mary laughed politely at the joke and, rather feigning to be distracted by Percy in her arms, went to pass her aunt on the stairs. "Who was it, then?"

"Oh," Mary sighed inwardly, her mind picking someone at random, "one of my American set - a Mrs. Longworth. Theodore Roosevelt's daughter, you know. She forgot about the time difference." Rosamund's expression was impassive, but Mary knew that she didn't believe a word. She could only hope that she'd allow the lie. "We got on famously - she, too, isn't adored much in more conservative circles -"

"Don't wait too long." Rosamund interrupted her. Mary blinked. "I realise that I wasn't one to support the match from the _very_ start," the older woman went on, reluctantly. Mary raised another eyebrow; clearly her aunt had no doubts about who was on the other end of the telephone call. "- It wouldn't matter if you marry a milkman. You could follow Sybil's example and catch the eye of the chauffeur." Rosamund's voice dripped with sarcasm, but Mary could only shift uncomfortably at her aunt's suggestion. Seeing her niece in no mood to criticise Tom Branson - a favourite with her mother - Rosamund grew serious, determined to make her point. "I'm sure, at Downton, the prospect of being alone was an attractive one," she went on, knowing how cramped the abbey could be, "but it shan't be too soon before the children have flown the nest and..." Rosamund sighed, a little too knowingly for Mary's liking, "you're left, alone..." Her eyes glanced disdainfully down to Percy, "...with only a dog for company."

Her first impulse was to groan at her aunt's morbid advice, but the forlorn expression that had accompanied it stopped her from doing so. Once upon a time, she'd rather envied Aunt Rosamund. She'd told her father so; all alone with plenty of money and a house in Eton square - she couldn't have imagined anything better. Undoubtedly, the freedom that her life afforded was desirable; Rosamund didn't have to answer to anyone and lived her life as she saw fit. But that freedom hadn't been her choice; her husband had died. As had Mary's. And Mary had been so confident that she needed that same freedom, that to be alone would help her in some way - to be a better mother, a better person. Alas, it wasn't working. In London, she felt like a shadow of herself, a shell even, and it didn't take her much to realise as to why. It wasn't freedom she needed. It was happiness. And no matter how much she loved her children, spending these last few months with Matthew and having her eyes opened to the possibility of a life that all four of them could have together...anything but that felt lacking, cheap.

After clambering the stairs, Rosamund's words struck the chord that her babies wouldn't be babies forever and Mary gave in on the urge to check on them. Gently pushing on the bedroom's door, Mary was taken aback to see Emily and Peter together, reading, the bedside lamp on. Her heart felt light at how sweet it was, but she was mindful of the time. "My darlings, what are you doing out of bed?"

"Waiting for you." Emily said obviously, as her brother scrambled out of the bed to relieve his Mama of dear Percy. "We want to hear all about it. Did everybody like your dress?"

"Yes, thank you." Mary assured her. It had been Emily's choice, after all. Her mother always looked very fetching in red, but she thought a green might make for a nice change. Depositing Percy carefully in Rabbit's arms, Mary came to sit on his bed, in awe of how well they seemed to adjust. What a few months they had had! From New York to Downton to London, to lose a father - children truly were the most resilient of people. "How do you like London?"

"Well," Emily shrugged, snuggling herself under the sheets, "it's much like New York, really. But we like it."

Peter snorted, as he came to sit beside his Mama, letting the puppy wander around the room. "We'll like it more when we're not living with Great Aunt Rosamund."

Mary barked a laugh at his indignant expression and stroked the hair away from his forehead. "Quite. And you're not missing anywhere..." She ventured, carefully, "- or anybody too much?"

"What a question! Of course we are, Mama," Emily smirked, bemused at how obvious her mother could be, "- but you knew that." Mary raised an indulgent eyebrow, allowing Emmy her moment to be smug.

"But we're seeing them soon, aren't we?" Peter demanded, catching on that they were speaking of Downton and worried that Mama had changed their plans.

"Yes, yes," Mary reassured him quickly, "your grandparents will be down in a fortnight and we'll have Aunt Sybil over this weekend..." Her eyes narrowed in thought, but she didn't go on.

Emily pursed her lips, amused. "You want to know if we're missing Matthew?" Her mother didn't bother denying it. "Well, I can answer for Peter." Emily said confidently, her voice taking on a young tone as she impersonated her brother, " - _Matthew_ would like this, _Matthew_ would like that, oh Emmy, why won't you play soldiers like _Matthew_ does-"

"I do not!" Peter complained, pouting.

"Stop, please." Mary half-pleaded with them, too tired for their antics. Emily obliged; there wasn't any malice in her poking fun at Peter. Leaning into his mother's embrace, Peter quietened and went to sucking his thumb, a sign that he, too, was very tired. Mary let her gaze drift over her daughter, intrigued. "And you're indifferent, I presume?"

A slight shrug of the shoulders, Emmy went to picking a thread on her sheets. "He grew on me, I guess."

"He does that."

Emily glanced up at her mother's soft agreement, the fondness in her tone so revealing, as if there was so much behind her words. Mary allowed herself a moment's indulgence in memories of sharing a bench and late-night sandwiches, before cautiously addressing the subject at hand. "...Do you think that he could grow on you enough that you might like..." Mary licked her lips, not knowing how to phrase, "...having him around more often?" She asked, looking between them.

Emily's eyes went straight to her brother's. "I told you they were getting married." She deadpanned.

"Are you going to marry Matthew, Mama?" Peter asked excited, pulling back slightly from his Mama's arms.

Mary swallowed as the conversation quickly jumped ahead. "Only if it's what you two want, as well." She looked at her daughter, seriously. "All _three_ of us have to say yes."

"Do we get rings, too?"

"Emily..." She reproached gently, hoping it was amusement rather than derision she could hear. She'd said it now - that she wouldn't go through anything without their approval. What if they refused? Mary couldn't believe that she hadn't considered it; her heart started beating steadily faster.

"I like it!" Peter said predictably, suddenly so much more awake. "Matthew will live with us and we can play together all the time - he'll be our Papa!"

Emily turned sharply at that announcement and Mary's eyes widened anxiously. She didn't want Peter putting Emily off by filling her head with the wrong ideas. "Rabbit, don't get ahead of yourself." She looked to her daughter imploringly. "I don't want you to think that he's a replacement in _any_ way. Your father was and will _always_ be your father. You must talk about him often and remember what a good time we all had..." She sighed shakily, feeling it all slipping away from her as Emmy's expression started to close off. "If I...if _we_ go ahead with this," she searched her mind for something to grab Emily back with and smiled, "we'll still have our Burns supper and go see a play for Father's birthday, all what we used to do." She nodded firmly, waiting for her daughter to look anything but doubtful, "I wouldn't have it any other way - and neither would Matthew."

"Of course!" Peter agreed, his brow creasing at how his sister appeared at the prospect of their Mama's marriage. "Why are you sad?" For a five year old, it was all rather obvious. "Father is our father and Matthew can be our Papa." Emily looked unconvinced and Peter climbed down from his bed and clambered on to hers. "It's different, Emmy. And how lucky we will be! Most children only have one and we get two!"

Biting the inside of her cheek, Emily was somewhat in awe of how simple the world was through her brother's eyes. Could it be that simple? It had been too much effort to hate Matthew in the end and he'd somehow got in, forcing this girl to end up caring about him. Could she care for him as a father? No, not a father, but a papa. "Just like that?"

"Why not?" Peter shrugged nonchalantly. "Matthew loves Mama, right? And us, doesn't he?" He looked back to his mother for confirmation and she nodded quickly, stunned that her son was able to make ground. "And we love him - so, we'll be happy together." His sister had a final waver and Peter sighed, a sigh so much like his grandfather's that Mary had to stop herself from grinning. "Everyone wants to be happy."

Emily didn't argue with him - it seemed Peter could be very persuasive. "Sweetheart?" Mary ventured carefully, unwilling to muddy the waters. "I won't do anything without you...if this isn't what-"

"It isn't the same." Emily blurted, quietly, tearfully. "Watching you get ready for a party...you need the maid to fasten your necklace now..." Mary felt her own eyes glisten at that assessment. Emily saw it. She saw that her mother was lonely and the bright lights of the city seemed dimmer because of it. Emily sniffed, putting herself back together, her expression now expectant. "He'll have to make a good job of it, though. Attending school concerts, taking me to ballet - and I think that it's high time I had a baby sister." Her head lifted higher at the request.

Mary almost spluttered, but her joy worn out and she settled for a beautiful smile. "I'll try my best."

Emily grinned back, reaching down to stroke Percy who'd settled on the floor beside her. Mary should have sent them straight to bed and taken herself off, too. Yet, she decided to give herself a moment to simply _bathe_ in whatever it was that she was feeling. To be truly happy, was this it? She supposed so - it felt glorious. Rosamund was right; she shouldn't wait too long. She didn't want to be left, alone, with only a dog for company. But even that concern was washed away as she thought to the little dog in her purse. _It's always been you, Mary. Every coat, every jacket. Every day_. Yes, this was happiness - and things would only get better.

**TBC...**

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><p><strong>Hope you liked it and how things are starting to look brighter for them. And by the way, if anyone's interested, the painting I was thinking that the children were looking at was 'Venus and Mars' by Botticelli.<strong>


	15. Chapter 15

__**So sorry about the late post, but I've been crazy busy. This chapter might be a little shorter than some previous but I hope it's far more satisfying. Thanks so much for your reviews and support, it seriously means so much and pushes me to get on the next chapter. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 15:<strong>

_30th May, 1930._

Mary sighed inwardly as her aunt's butler took her coat. She was so very late and sure to be scolded for it. She'd had a delightful tea with Lady Weymouth, a good fifteen years Mary's junior and quite the character. She had a cynicism beyond her years that Mary enjoyed very much. It had been nice to eat cake and make jokes, as if it were her debut season again and the time gone had fallen away from her. Or it had done, until she'd bothered to glance at her watch and realised her tardiness.

Emily had insisted that her Mama be very much on time. _Grandmama and Grandpapa are coming and it won't do to be late_. All said with a playful glint in her eye, it was awfully hard to say no to her daughter. Mary would know; she'd employed the same tactics as a child. But Emmy was right that it didn't do to be late - not when one was to announce one's engagement to one's parents. Or that one intended to be engaged, at least. Matthew hadn't quite done it properly yet, but it was all rather unspoken, wasn't it?

Whilst she didn't doubt that her parents had missed the children, she wasn't naive to their ulterior motives. Whenever Mama had questioned her on the subject of Matthew, Mary had always been closed off and dismissive. In truth, she didn't care for talking about him; it only made her miss him more. Eventually, Papa had telephoned, which was very unlike him, to see how things were; Mary had indulged him by pretending she couldn't hear their whisperings down the other end of the line. It was charming, really, how invested they all were in the match. And it made it painfully clear how truly against her marriage with Richard they had been.

Removing her hat and gloves, Mary checked her hair in the foyer's mirror before making her way into the drawing room. "Is everyone here?" She smiled breathlessly, berating herself for sounding a little anxious. Her eyes took in the contented faces of her mother sat on the settee, with Papa behind. Aunt Rosamund didn't look particularly content, more bemused really, but was seated, too. "I'm rather late, I know. I was having tea with-" Mary swallowed, stopping herself as her mother frowned curiously, and knowing that she wouldn't be pleased by her daughter's choice of companion. Mary licked her lips, shrugging. "- It doesn't matter. Did you have a pleasant journey?"

"Oh, we made do." Robert smiled.

Mary smiled back. It was awfully nice to see them again. "Well, I'm glad, I would hate for..."

Mary trailed off, finally falling silent, her anxiousness quite spent, as her eyes fell on the others in the room, obscured by the door as she first came in. There Matthew sat, comfortably in an armchair, Peter having made himself at home on his lap, Emily by his shoulder as she leant lazily on the chair's arm. There Matthew sat, with a smile just for Mary.

"You're here." Mary nearly rolled her eyes at how ridiculous she sounded. You're here - quite observant, yes. Her nerves were making a reappearance, not at seeing Matthew again after all this time, but at how different their situation was, at the possibilities ahead of them - now that her children had given their blessing. And he hadn't the faintest idea.

"Yes, Matthew came along." Robert said cheerfully. "We knew you wouldn't mind." He smirked, as Mary still had eyes only for dear Matthew. "How are things?"

"Good." Mary said distractedly, quietly, still taking in the scene before her. Matthew's smile soon turned bemused; she shook herself irritated, bringing herself to and flashing her parents a smile of her own. "Great. We've been having a splendid time with Aunt Rosamund, haven't we children?"

Mary looked to Emily and Peter to answer, but Rosamund was happy to do so herself. "I'm not sure the children - nor Aunt Rosamund for that matter - would be as quick to agree." She answered wryly, looking up to her brother. "Please tell me that you've come to take her back." Robert could only raise an eyebrow in response, convinced that his sister had no other destiny than to morph into their mother.

"Mary darling," Cora smiled, interrupting any sibling battle of wits before it got started, "Cousin Hugh's heard nothing out of the ordinary and Granny said you even had compliments at the Savoy for how well you've been doing, what an agreeable guest you are to have at a party," Her mother's relief was palpable and Mary thought it very sweet, "- I'm very proud of you."

Still, she retorted. "Is that quite how Granny put it?" Cora narrowed her eyes playfully; of course, her mother-in-law had used _another_ turn of phrase, but it had shared the same meaning, more or less. Mary had carried herself well in London and much had gone in her favour. If her indiscretion had made itself public back in 1913, she would have been crucified for it, but the world had changed. War had a terrible price, but it put some things into perspective.

"Look Mama," Peter said gleefully from his playmate's knee, holding up his prize. "Matthew's bought us a cup-and-ball _and_ a yo-yo." Emily rolled her eyes at her brother's enthusiasm, but bit her tongue as she let the yo-yo go once more.

"More gifts?" Mary said softly, her gaze nervously meeting Matthew's.

"Well, the puppy was so successful," Matthew shrugged with another smile for her, "- and I do like being popular."

Rabbit's eyes flickered between his mother and Matthew eagerly, very pleased to see them looking pleased. He couldn't help but grin, but catching his grandfather's suspicious eye, he put his thumb in his mouth guiltily.

"Peter, my boy," Robert asked, his lips pursed with amusement, "- you look like the cat who's got the cream."

"Mama told us."

Mary's eyes snapped to her son at his little confession. Matthew, like the rest of the room, glanced at her questioningly. Mary didn't return his gaze, only shaking her head imperceptibly at Peter. "Told you what?" Matthew went on, regardless. Rabbit knew a warning when he saw one, but his sister was rather unsurprised when he buckled with excitement and clutched on to his friend's neck, to whisper in his ear. Matthew blinked for a moment, but gave nothing away. Yet another smile, far smaller but one which Mary knew to be even more heartfelt graced his face. "Oh, she did, did she?" He said quietly, tweaking Peter's nose as he nodded happily.

Mary might have enjoyed the moment, but was distracted by the look between her parents, thinking it far too smug. But Cora knew when her daughter was uncomfortable and quickly sought to put her more at ease. "We were going to take the children out for the day." She supplied, grinning inwardly at Matthew's devoted expression. "Sybil says they have the most marvellous Punch and Judy show in Covent Garden, then a teashop maybe..." She shrugged, not minding at all what their plans were to be. Rosamund clucked her tongue at how disorganised it sounded. Perhaps it was the consequence of having children, she wondered. Mary used to so punctual before she married, but today was another case and point as to how much she'd changed.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea." Mary agreed, smiling as her daughter stood straighter, eager to be outdoors and to have fun. "I'll just change my gloves, it's too warm for these-"

"To be awfully rude dear," Cora interrupted, "- you're not invited. We're only interested in spoiling our grandchildren today, I'll spoil you tomorrow."

"Excellent, children should be outside, or so I've heard." Rosamund shrugged nonchalantly, more for effect than anything else, smirking as her sister-in-law bristled. Irritating Cora was simply too easy. "Mary and I can start planning our little soirée next week for the-"

"Of course, Rosamund, you should come, too." Cora was quick to interrupt again, looking to her husband for support. Mary's eyebrows rose at how insistent her mother sounded, smelling a rat. "Shouldn't she, Robert?"

"What?" Robert blinked, none the wiser, distracted from pulling faces at his grandson. A pointed look from his wife told him what was required. "Oh yes, show your brother how to do London properly."

"With a trip to Covent Garden?" Rosamund asked drily, her thoughts on that proposal clear. "And as if you need me to show you London at all - you've been doing the Season longer than I have. "

"Well, to give Cora some female company, then," he tried dismissively, coming to sit down himself and patting for Emily to join him, "- she's been starved since Edith went..." He gestured his hand, not quite knowing how to put it, his middle daughter's travel plans having thrown everyone at Downton for a loop, "- sailing. Matthew and Mary can stay here and..." He waved his hand again, looking for a reason and Mary almost snorted with the obviousness of it all. No one could accuse her family of not being persistent. If she and Matthew weren't to put things into motion themselves, then her parents could be relied upon to speed along the process.

Rosamund looked to her niece and her suitor, checking they understood what was going on here, their shy grins confirming so. It may have been quite sweet, if not romantic, but did it really all have to be at the expense of her spending another afternoon with the children? Surely, her brother's visit was to give her a well-deserved rest. "If you must pretend to desire my company, could you at least do it well? You two couldn't be more obvious." Rosamund sighed, more than a little irked. "Brother dear, you're supposed to be a peer," Robert had the good grace to look insulted at that, "- if this is how you lie in the Lords, the Marquis of Salisbury must wish that you batted for the other side."

"Papa, a Liberal?" Mary asked, the wryness settling the nerves in her stomach.

"Yes, thank you." Robert replied sarcastically, playfully tickling his granddaughter's side as she went to giggle. He looked to his wife beseechingly. "Are you sure that my sister has to come?"

"Oh Robert, don't be so sensitive." Cora clucked at his dramatics, before Rosamund could open her mouth to retort. "You can reminiscence. We'll even take Emily and Peter to the places you and Rosmaund went as children!" Peter seemed willing; Emily had her doubts. "It'll be fun!"

"And solve the mysteries of our childhood." Robert said, his eyes sliding to the toy that Emily was playing with beside him, watching her sigh in frustration as she missed it again. "I had a cup-and-ball once."

Matthew's nostrils flared in amusement as the whole room paused at how very peeved Robert sounded. "What grudges you hold." Rosamund said, knowing an accusation when she heard one. "You left it in the park."

"You threw it in the pond."

"Why, Robert, would I do that?"

"I don't know the inner workings of your mind - but you did it!"

Rosamund looked to everyone else for the ridiculousness of it; Robert almost sounded as if he were putting her on trial. He didn't mind that it was much fun for everyone else, but he was adamant. And his sister could have put a stop to it, but the children had such smiles on their faces and it was no difficult task to keep them happy. Perhaps, they saw themselves in their Grandpapa and Great Aunt Rosamund, that a brother and sister will always bicker about the most silly of things and that it was just fine to do so. Children were by no means her _raison d'être_ and she couldn't pretend to understand them, but to be the grouchy Crawley was an easy role to play and Rosamund supposed that, without her mother there, it fell on her shoulders to play it. She sighed inwardly and gave in, sniffing with feigned boredom:

"Delusion is such an awful affliction, brother, you should really see a doctor."

* * *

><p>Mary thanked the butler as he put down the tea tray and departed, trying desperately to ignore Matthew's staring. Any hopes of a lovers' reunion were quickly dashed after her parents left with the children and a reluctant Rosamund. For some reason, they were dancing awkwardly around one another; Matthew had started with inane comments on the weather and Mary had requested for tea. They weren't sure how to be with one another. They'd been denied each other and kept apart for so long, that the idea of being unashamedly happy with one another seemed unfathomable. Her parents had desired the match for so long now, and Matthew was so pleased to finally have his mother in his corner once more. Granny was itching to say 'I told you so' and the children were content, too.<p>

It seemed too easy after all this time. Sat alone, in the drawing room, able to say whatever they wanted, able to hold each other without guilt or need for a moment's pause - Mary was feeling rather cautious about it all. And if she was cautious, then Matthew was terribly on edge. The furrowed brow, the slight sheen to his top lip as he pulled at his collar; he looked as anxious as she'd ever seen him. As if Richard had pulled strings on the other side to have Matthew struck by lightning should he try anything.

Mary bit her lip, a little more at ease as she noticed Matthew's discomfort. She never liked being at a disadvantage and could barely contain a grin as Matthew almost scolded himself with the teapot. "Peace, at last." He tried, laughing.

"Yes." She agreed pointlessly, not bothering to help him.

He nodded, pointlessly as well, determining that he could either talk or drink tea but wasn't up to doing both. "So, tell me more about this Lady Weymouth, I've heard some..." He swallowed, suddenly realising where he was taking the conversation and how he had no desire to do so, "- salacious, shall we say-"

"Matthew." Mary said gently, deciding to spare him, and he calmed at the caress of his name. "You don't indulge in gossip."

"I'm sorry." Matthew quickly apologised, heaving a sigh and shrugging desperately. "I was looking for something to say, I..." He paused, berating himself for getting flustered and sat back to appreciate the woman before him. She'd caressed his name and now he caressed her with his gaze; he was pathetically chuffed by her blushes. "So, you've discussed it with them."

He didn't need to say anymore and Mary smiled at the memory of it. "I did - and it all went remarkably well." She raised her eyebrows; again, it had been all so easy. "I keep waiting for Emily to break down and beg that I remain faithful to Richard's memory, but she has yet to."

"I hope you don't mean that, by marrying me, you're being _un_faithful to his memory." Matthew frowned, concerned.

"No, I didn't mean that exactly." Mary blinked: had she meant that? Surely not - she'd just not had her daughter's approval in so long. "It's just..." She shrugged lightly, not wanting to get into it and certainly not wanting to argue, "- never mind."

This time, Matthew blinked. He sighed again; if Mary was backing down, then he really was being pedantic. If only someone would take a stick and beat him about the head with it. "I'm sorry. It seems that I'm not quite used to being so blissfully happy that I'm still trying to find fault." He smiled anxiously, leaning forward to hold her hand. "Ignore me. I love you and am beyond relieved to know that we have their blessing, that we can go ahead." He licked his lips, struck by a thought. Everything was concrete in his own mind, but he wasn't sure they'd specified...had he asked her? He couldn't have. "We're going ahead - aren't we?"

Mary's eyes scanned his face questioningly, praying to God that this wasn't his attempt at a proposal. She nearly jumped as he seemed to squeeze her hand harder, that sheen back on his lip again. He was waiting for a reply. "Well, yes..." She smiled breathlessly, wanting to reassure him.

But Matthew wasn't so easily dissuaded. "I've said something wrong."

"Matthew," She said briskly, raising an eyebrow - he always chose the worst moments to be a bumbling fool, and it was reminding her of their first acquaintance, and his less flattering comments. "Do shut up and kiss me."

That put his worries to bed, and Matthew needed no further encouragement, near jumping from his chair to sit beside her. She giggled as he almost yanked her towards him; if he was a bumbling fool, then at least he was _her_ bumbling fool. His eagerness seemed to strip the years away and she felt those old butterflies again and suddenly wished they had sandwiches and strawberries to complete the picture. So eager, she waited for him to take charge, but Matthew didn't seem to want to stop staring at her, one hand hovering at her elbow, another at her waist. Shaking her head exasperatedly, Mary gave into the impulse to run a gentle hand through his hair and smiled as his eyes fluttered shut. Oh, how could they waste time on nerves and tea when they could have been doing this!

But that thought soon left Mary as his lips touched her own. Lightly at first, but as she sighed a little with contentment, Matthew's hand closed tighter on her waist and he kissed her with all the passion he could muster. Her hand ran through his hair again to grasp it at the back, scratching his neck softly and grinning into his mouth as he groaned with pleasure. His tongue sought entry and she was more than willing to give it and as he pushed the boundaries further, he pushed her back on the settee.

Mary gasped, as he dragged his lips lazily from her mouth to her cheek, to her jaw, to the hollow of her neck; her hand never left his neck and it wasn't long before she was pulling him back to her. She was so desperate not to be parted.

And then, he had a hand on her calf and she could feel her dress being drawn upwards, his hand coming to her knee, then her thigh. It felt wonderful, and from what was pressing against her inner thigh, Mary could tell that Matthew was having a wonderful time, too.

But the dress was such that Matthew struggled to pull it up further and he reluctantly ceased his attentions to her mouth to glance down at the problem. She frowned questioningly, as he gazed with frustration back up her. Her frown morphed into a grin, just looking at him. The dishevelled hair, the swollen lips and flushed cheeks, he was so very endearing, so very kissable. "I..." He swallowed, breathlessly, "your dress, I shouldn't..."

In truth, it killed him to utter such words. She, too, had the dishevelled hair sprawled across a pillow, the swollen lips and flush cheeks - and he couldn't believe her anymore magnificent than he did in that moment. Mary sighed with her own frustration, pulling at his lapels; he couldn't help but smirk at how keen she was. "Why ever not?"

He sighed, pulling his arm up above her to lean upon it, the brief respite clearing the fog, brilliant thought it was, he'd been in. He respected Mary enough to be insistent that she think hard about this. Her roll of the eyes told him that she'd already guessed his thoughts. "Darling, we're not yet..."

She almost barked a laugh. It was sweet, Mary supposed, but wondered how Matthew could think he was doing the honourable thing when she was already on her back with him laying on top of her. Did he think her some quivering virgin? She hoped not, otherwise he was to soon be disappointed. She was a mother, for God's sake; she hardly needed a talk on the birds and the bees. She hardly needed a ring on her finger to love Matthew as she wanted. "It's too late for me to wear anything other than off-white, I'm afraid." She shrugged - as best as she could from her position - happily, and leant up to press her lips to his. "Matthew," She said softly, her eyes smiling, " - make love to me."

* * *

><p>Matthew sighed with contentment, as Mary's drew her mouth from his to kiss his chest before she rested her head upon it. He hadn't needed telling twice. She'd taken his hand silently in hers and he'd let her lead the way to her room. And it had been wonderful.<p>

In a way, they'd both expected it to be a heated scrambling towards the bed and a passionate shedding of the clothes, not having yet been able to consummate their love. In fact, that had been Mary's plan - pleased to finally have her wicked way with dear Matthew, ever attentive and polite. But, as soon as her bedroom door had closed, he'd stepped away from her. He had stepped away and looked at Mary with such _love_ that all she'd wanted to do was melt in his arms. It was horribly drippy of her to feel like that, but she couldn't help it. It was Matthew and he'd been here, looking at her like she was the very air he breathed - and so they made love.

It had been passionate, but not rushed. Matthew had wanted to remember every bit of it, every part of Mary, every curve, every mark and she'd had to stop herself from crying with joy for most of it.

"That was lovely."

Mary smiled tearfully at Matthew's small whisper, his forefinger drawing shapes on her back. _Lovely_. Of love, it certainly had been.

"It really was."

"We should do that again." Mary barked a laugh at his eagerness. Matthew went red as he heard himself; Mary looked up at him, mischievously - how adorable he was when embarrassed. "Not now necessarily, but in the near future..." He quickly amended, swallowing as she sat up beside him, expectant. "- if you'd like..."

"Still, you're nervous." Mary shook her head bemused, reaching over to smooth his hair. She was willing to acknowledge that she was far most used to sharing a bed and talking of nothing and everything. Matthew had known what he was doing well enough - she could testify to that - but there was all those other intricacies to married life that he would have yet to learn. She bit her lip guiltily for thinking of Richard; some things were the same, but then some things were so different. So many things had been left unsaid in her bed with Richard and in their married life, in general. Going to sleep angry, cold shoulders at breakfast, ignoring his infidelities - Mary did not want her life with Matthew to stray down a similar path. She smiled softly, as his eyebrows twitched thoughtfully, working himself up to making a confession. No, their path would be quite unique. "What is going on in that head of yours?"

"Well, we aren't yet..." He indicated between the two of them. Mary frowned before filling in the blanks. She barked another laugh at his concern to do the right thing, his paranoia at being caught - Matthew hadn't seemed too worried about their not being married a few minutes ago. Matthew blinked, taken aback by her amusement.

She copied his gesture between them, too happy to mock him. "Maybe because _you_ haven't..."

His frown was even briefer than Mary's, before his nerves dissipated at being in Mary's bed, so easy as it was to fall back into sparring with her. He pulled the sheets toward him, his eyes flicking exasperated to the ceiling. "I was wondering how long it would take you to prompt me."

"I can't believe you need prompting."

Matthew turned to Mary, aghast at her petulant muttering. Keeping the smile quite from her face, she rose to the challenge and faced him, eyebrows raised expectantly. He groaned inwardly, sure that Mary had been resenting him for not proposing sooner. Cousin Violet had been right: no surprise there, then. He waited to be berated further, but Mary merely crossed her arms. The matter was simple enough - and he knew how to rectify it.

"Yes, all right!" He sighed dramatically, pulling her sheet covers off of him and rising out of the bed. Mary's eyes widened at his sudden movements and the corners of her mouth fought - rather unsuccessfully, she had to admit - not to twitch as Matthew stood before her, quite without clothes, hands on his hips, trying to look very determined. He waited a beat, but Mary was too stunned to take the hint. "Out!" She flinched at his order, both affronted and amused by him. An eyebrow rose again - if he thought that that particular tone was going to encourage her, then Matthew had another thing coming. He rolled his eyes, at her unrelenting glare. "Out and - put on a nightgown." He said, slightly calmer, but equally insistent. Mary's glare went on, but she took pity on him and got up from the bed. A grin came to her face as his gaze dropped, hungrily, from her eyes to...well, everywhere else. Eventually, he looked back to her face and groaned at the smugness he saw there. Hastily grabbing what he could only assume to be her nightdress - as flimsy as it was - and thrusting it in her direction, Matthew groaned again as she didn't immediately go to take it. "I won't be able to concentrate otherwise!" He assured her, choosing to ignore her amused expression as Mary finally took it and put it on.

Sighing with relief, he came round the bed to her, before taking her hand affectionately in his, a gentle smile coming to his face. "Mary, love of my life-"

"I'm not being proposed to naked!" Mary spluttered, shocked he wasn't going to put something on too. He sighed, this time very exasperated, but Mary was unyielding. "I'm a lady."

"You're a nuisance." Matthew muttered in retort; this wasn't the romantic proposal he'd planned. Still, after some infuriated searching, he reached down for his trousers, put them on and fastened them. He held his hands out for her inspection. "There, better?" She shrugged rather nonchalantly, but a smile still fought to break free. Matthew smirked indulgently, coming to take her hand again. She nodded to the floor, pointedly. Taking the hint, Matthew knelt before her with little protest. His thumb rubbed over her knuckles fondly, as he let himself appreciate the moment. "...Mary, love of-"

"_Lady_ Mary, like I said."

"Oh for pity's sake." Matthew scowled at her making mischief, her determination to ruin the moment. "You're impossible, do you know that?"

"I know, but you love me, remember?" She smiled charmingly, and he stopped his grumbling to take it all in. She was so beautiful and her giggling just made her all the more so. She wasn't ruining the moment; it was perfect. And Matthew wanted nothing more than to be with her, like this, _always_... "So you'll simply have to put up with it." She grinned, tugging on his hand as he seemed to freeze. "Now, go on. Lady Mary, will you do me the honour-"

"Marry me."

Mary smiled again, indulgently. "That's wasn't even a question."

"I'm not taking no for an answer." He replied, quite determined. "Marry me."

She bit her lip playfully for a moment, but could refuse him no longer. He'd done it properly enough she supposed. "...yes." She said quietly, frowning, as again Matthew remained unmoved. She could see the cogs turning in his head. "You may stand and kiss me, if you wish." She tried, still keeping things light.

"Marry me."

He was just as determined and held her hand just as tightly. Mary's frown deepened. "Have you suddenly gone deaf? I just-"

"I mean, marry me _now_." It was painfully clear to him. The moment was perfect; Mary was perfect and nothing else would do. Things may have been settled between them, but Matthew couldn't bear the thought of leaving here, returning to Downton without Mary as his wife. Not after everything they'd shared. Here they stood - or one stood with the other sorely kneeling - barely dressed, so open and carefree with each other...the idea of having to steal moments with her for months on end until a wedding - he didn't want it. He wanted _her_. When it came to he and Mary, they never did things by the book - why start now? "Wear your best frock and let's go to the nearest registry office and do it, marry each other."

All was said with a exuberant smile, and Mary went to smile with him, sure that he was pulling her leg. But he still waited, on bended knee, her hand in his and her throat soon closed up in the realisation that her _fiancé_ was not joking in the slightest. "We can't do that!"

"Why not?" He demanded of her, wanting to quickly quash her objections.

"Because..." Mary snatched her hand back, her head spinning at the very suggestion, "...we're not elopers! Because I'm not Sybil - and you're not the chauffeur. Weddings take planning, they're an event - and our lot don't scrimp on events." Matthew rolled his eyes as she reverted to sounding more and more like her grandmother. He'd panicked her and all she could do was splutter about the way things _should_ be whilst looking at him as if he'd grown two heads. Caught up in his feelings, Matthew berated himself for forgetting Mary's likely reaction; he sighed heavily, getting up to stand. Mary tutted, now unhappy with herself, as he stood with such resignation. But where on earth had he come up with such a plan? "If you're worried about..." She ventured, looking back to the bed, "- the chances are small and if I somehow am, it'll be months before I begin to show-"

Matthew glanced to the ceiling, exasperated as she jumped to the wrong conclusion. "I want to marry you now, because I love you and want to be with you, always, from this moment on." He informed Mary, wanting to make that very clear. She was suitably abashed and blushed at statement. He smiled softly, trying to appeal to her. "There's nothing to stop us, no one standing in our way - why bother with an engagement?" Mary didn't reply, and Matthew didn't expect her to. But he needed for her to understand. To understand that his desire to marry _now_ had nothing to do with concerns for propriety or wanting to make love with her freely - it was so much more than that. Reaching forward to grasp her hand again, Mary gasped. He'd already held her hand, knelt on the floor, but now, standing before her, on equal footing, it seemed far more intimate and she could feel goosebumps over her skin as he softly spoke his next words: "I've spent too many years without you to be wasting months, wasting any more minutes, seconds..." Matthew felt his voice catch and so stopped there. He didn't want to get too emotional - he knew how she hated that sort of thing - nor caught up in regrets, but he'd spoken from the heart. What else could he do? Mary's eyes still on him, she remained silent, but was no longer horrified. He sighed gently, hoping he hadn't scared her too much and tried for a compromise. "If you want, we'll wait for your parents to return, then they and the children can be there. My mother isn't here, but - she'll think it all romantic, she's very much on our side again, you know. I spoke with her about it and she understands, I was stern actually-"

"No, I..." Mary stopped him quietly, finally finding her voice. He'd defended her to his mother; it warmed her heart to think Isobel was supportive again. In fact, it all rather warmed her heart. His proposal, his reasons - and she was putting him off, their marriage off, for what? So, she could buy the right dress, invite the right people, have the right wedding? How could any of that be anymore _right_, then she and Matthew being together as they were now? Living in London had taught her that the rest of it was meaningless anyway. Parties and dinners, doing the Season - all diversion, but having had a glimpse of what her life could be, with Matthew, how could possibly settle for waiting? Shaking her head, she willed the tears away. "The children won't care for it. They're young enough that the idea of sitting through a wedding is torturous, and Emily hates being a bridesmaid." Matthew smiled softly; he could well imagine that. Mary licked her lips, thoughtfully. "We'll need witnesses, but let them enjoy their day. And we'll enjoy ours." Matthew raised a questioning eyebrow; did he dare hope? Mary shrugged indulgently. "I've had a wedding. A day that every girl dreams about, though I'd always dreaded it in my youth. Accepting best wishes from distant relatives, eating too much food or, in my case, drinking too much champagne...veils aren't half as much fun to wear as they look..." She laughed rather teary, before sobering up and truly looking at the man before her, who once again was looking back at her with such love. A love that had been burning for too long. Matthew was right. How could they wait a moment longer? Mary ground her teeth a little, knowing a tear or two to be on her cheeks. "...I don't want a wedding. I want a marriage. A marriage, with you, now."

Matthew swallowed. He'd suggested it in the knowledge that his chances were slim; he couldn't believe she was agreeing. "Are you sure?" He said, giving her out. He didn't want their marriage to start with regrets. If she wanted a big wedding - the whole sing and dance of it - he would do it, for her. "Because God Mary, I will wait if you want me to, it's only-"

"It's only that you don't want us to part again." She finished for him, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. He smiled gratefully down at her, for understanding, for being Mary, for loving him as he did her. "I don't want that either. You've shared my bed now - I won't be able to sleep without you in it, I think." She grinned playfully. "And I like my beauty sleep."

Matthew was almost breathless. Mary had agreed. They were getting married. They were getting married _today_. His mind tried to catch up with him, thinking what needed to be done. "I'll...I'll ring around, I have a few Cambridge friends around perhaps, but I don't know where they'd be-"

"I can think of two witnesses already." Mary smiled, so much calmer than her husband-to-be.

"I'll buy a ring, then." He suggested, his own smile fading as he looked down to her hand. "Oh..." Mary didn't need to glance down to know where Matthew was looking. She still had her wedding rings on. She'd almost forgotten, so used she was to wearing them. Matthew looked back up at her with a small - albeit grimaced - smile. He understood; of course, he did. Widows didn't take off their rings and he didn't have rings to give her yet. But still, was she holding on to something? To Richard?

"I'll keep it for Peter to give to some lucky lady." Mary said brightly, taking them off without another moment's thought, feeling his excitement starting to peter out. "No, better for Emily - no sane girl would accept Peter with such an ugly ring. And if she did, I'm sure that I'd never like her." She grinned, glancing down at the engagement and wedding rings between his fingers, her eyes softening in remembrance. She'd always complained at the sheer size of the engagement ring; it was gaudy and in little taste. Richard had agreed: _much like the man that bought it then!_ "We always used to joke about that; I kept threatening to lose it."

"But you didn't." Matthew said softly, knowing, as Mary quietened, that she was taking a trip down memory lane.

"No, I didn't."

He sighed inwardly, thinking himself very remiss indeed. Richard had only been gone for _four_ _months_ and already he was putting her on the spot to marry him now. He couldn't seen to help it- he was so in love with Mary, always had been...He shook his head, disappointed with himself. "You must think me awful - this is all too soon for you-"

"No, it's really not." Mary corrected him gently, but firmly, looking away from the rings back to Matthew, _darling_ Matthew. If Richard's death had taught her nothing else, it was that one lived on borrowed time and Matthew was right in not wanting to waste it. Wiping away any tears on her face, Mary wanted _this_ forever. Til death do us part - it had been their hearts' true desire for years and had been pledged this very afternoon. And Richard would be happy for her. _All_ he ever wanted, in spite of his better judgment and often his own interests, was for Mary to be happy. And _God_, today she truly was. "He knew it would be you. That I loved him in my own way, that I was happy to be his wife, but that it was always you." She shrugged lightly; it couldn't be helped. "It _is_ always you."

Matthew nodded, the feeling so entirely mutual. Richard was a part of Mary's life - he'd given her Emily and Peter and, for the most part, he'd been a good husband - and Matthew couldn't, _wouldn't_ ask her ever to forget that or feel that she couldn't share anything with him. In the end, Richard had really proven himself to be made of fine stuff. There were no reasons to be jealous or bitter, no reason to do a victory dance. _No hard feelings, eh Crawley?_ That bright smile suddenly graced his face again, as he reached out to cradle Mary's cheek. "You make me the happiest man alive."

But it was Mary, and a raise of the eyebrow was almost obligatory. "You won't be saying that for long."

**TBC..**

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><p><strong>A rather happy note (odd for me, I know), please let me know your thoughts!<strong>


	16. Chapter 16

**Words cannot express how sorry I am about how late this update is. **

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><p><span><strong>Chapter 16:<strong>

30th May, 1930.

_There's a warmth there, a glint in his eye, that touches her heart just as it did when she was a child. _

_He's down with the family, Mama having decided to stay on longer (dreading the prospect of staying with Aunt Rosamund without her husband for support.) Papa might stay on a while, too, now that the house is opened up, to see Sybil, more of their grandchildren, old friends perhaps. _

_He greeted them at the door, masking any surprise as they came through, as they asked to speak to _him_. She couldn't think of anyone better; Sybil would act as witness, too, of course. They'd telephoned; she'd nigh on squealed with delight. But who better to have stand up with her than dear old Carson, who'd stood by her through every trial, every tribulation. They share their engagement; his congratulations are heartfelt._

_And then they tell him of their plans to wed, in relative secrecy, _today_ and the furrow of his brow makes her wonder if she _can_ do wrong in his eyes after all. And uncertainly starts to make its mark._

_His tentative attempt to question her actions is enough to know that he doesn't approve. "Forgive me, surely Lord Grantham ought to know-"_

_"Lord Grantham would have us marry in Yorkshire," She hears herself reply politely, starting to feel terribly small in the hallway, "and if Matthew and I don't do this now..." She looks to Matthew, her _fiancé_ for encouragement and he gives it readily with a comforting smile. She sighs rather shakily, if anyone can understand it'll be Carson. "I'm not a very brave person, I'll lose courage and wait, do what is proper and I don't want that."_

_"But surely you want the family here?"_

_She opens her mouth, but isn't quite sure what to say. Carson seems perplexed, like what he says is the most obvious thing in the world. But he doesn't understand. Her family's incomplete, and she has the opportunity to make it whole, without further delay. Matthew's hand comes to rest supportively on her back and it somehow makes her stand straighter, boosts her confidence. After this evening, he can put his hand to her back every day and no one will question. It will all be so delightfully clear; she will be his and he hers._

_"Carson," Matthew says gently, but his tone brooking no argument. "Lady Mary and I are going to marry today and we would like for you to be there."_

_"And not to report your activities to his lordship." _

_Mary raises her eyebrow ever so slightly; he's got them there. But he says it without a wryness or judgement, a voice of innocence, or however innocent one can sound with such a rich baritone._

_"I wouldn't put it like that, exactly," now it is Matthew's turn to gape like a fish, "it's...it's only-"_

_But Mary knows best of all that there is no fooling the butler: "I would."_

_She looks unrepentant though, and he can tell that she's quite made up her mind, that this is_ _probably just a matter of going through the motions, but he _must_ protest on behalf of his employer. "But it's your _wedding_, milady..." He trails off, clearing his throat awkwardly. He didn't have_ _anything concrete in mind, but Mary's heart cheers, in terrible taste, at the forlornness in his voice. This isn't just on behalf of Papa. It's on behalf of being denied an opportunity to host the wedding at Downton, that it won't be the glorious event it should be, the wedding she should have had. It's a _wedding_, as he rightly says, - and she's having him lie about it._

_Matthew could never understand, of course. Even he thought it a bit eccentric to ask the butler to serve as a witness, but Mary didn't care; she already has the reputation of an eccentric in London - among other things. He is too middle class, too used to confiding in his family. Her gaze is drawn to the table by the stairs, the roses in Granny's vase, the photographs along side, of the sisters Crawley as children, of their own children, and even one of Matthew in his regimental. Carson lives and breathes this family as much as he does Downton and has given his best years to service, but there would be no painting hung from her wall to commemorate him, no photograph on the sidetable. And, all of sudden, Mary feels quite forlorn herself._

_"If _you_ are there, I'll still have my champion." She smiles beautifully, knowing too well what words would please him most, and happy to deliver them. A nervous laugh escapes her as a sudden impulsive overtakes her. "I know that you don't like doubling duties - but you might stand in for Papa."_

_Carson's eyes dart to Matthew in something rather akin to horror who can only shrug a little. The butler's head shakes, trying to refuse her as she looks at him earnestly. "Oh, milady, I couldn't possibly-"_

_"I know it must break so many of your rules," She says hurriedly, but with more conviction, who could possibly be better? If Carson steps up to the plate, well, it's as if Downton has sanctified the union herself; if Carson condones it and gives his blessing - whose opinions are so often in line with Papa's and Granny's and anyone who might put up a fuss - then everything is above board, in a way, isn't it? She steps closer, though does not reach out toward him (she never does), a soft smile on her lips. "But - you know me, you know me better than most," She is encouraged by the wisp of a smile she sees emerging, "- I never give a fig about rules."_

_She can feel rather than see Matthew grin beside her, but the smile quite falls off her face at the thought that Carson might refuse her, that he might tell Papa. Her heart sinks at the thought; Matthew will be so disappointed. And yet, it is a distinct possibility. Matthew admitted as much on the way here. Why, he asked, would they need another witness when Tom was to come with Sybil anyway? Carson was liable to come clean. But she insisted. A knot forms in her stomach at the idea that she wants to be caught red-handed, a knot which needs...something. She wonders if Carson is going to drag them from the haze in which they have found themselves and put a stop to this so she doesn't have to. _

_"Then neither do I, milady." Well, he never could deny Lady Mary. She looks at him hard; he's agreed but he's not happy about it. She's not sure if the disappointment is his own or merely a mirror looking back at her. "I have a funny feeling that tomorrow there's going to be another pretty picture of you in the newspapers."_

_She loves him for the joke, and so does Matthew. What a bizarre day, they are to have. Matthew smiles brillantly at her and she returns it in kind, scolding herself for questioning any of it when there is such a man in the world, who wants nothing more than to make her his wife. Matthew gives her a gentle wink, his flirtatious manner no longer bothering to disguise itself. "We're all agreed on that."_

_She blushes appropriately, but as she glances back to Carson who, for a split moment, is completely unguarded, guilt courses through her for putting him in this position. And then, she recognises that knot for what it is. Doubt._

* * *

><p>"Well, don't you look smart."<p>

By the mid-afternoon, the knot had only tightened. Mary snapped out of her daze at the words and returned the gaze in the mirror, to see Sybil smiling at her. Poor Sybil - she looked so terribly out of place. It had been too long since she'd last visited a boutique of this kind; she and Tom were hardly living in the gutter but what money they did have, they were not spending on Sybil's wardrobe. Mary returned the smile, shaking her head to rid herself of any daydreaming, thankful for Sybil's indulgence of a far vainer sister.

"I like it." Mary agreed, looking back to her own reflection and raising a chin as she appraised herself critically. A silk, cream dress to the knee, a deep v-neck with long, cuffed sleeves, she thought to the fur-trimmed coat that would keep her warm with it. Some pretty earrings, a brooch perhaps - she would suffice. Her eyes drifted to the fascinators displayed behind her. "With a good hat, this will do very well." Mary sighed contentedly, surprised at how easy it had all been, thinking back to every dress fitting she'd had _before_ - the first time. Mentally scolding herself for thinking about that wedding on the day of her wedding to Matthew, Mary glanced back to her sister for distraction, but Sybil remained smiling. A little too tightly. "What?"

Sybil's smile turned guilty at having been caught out, unsure whether to say anything. "It's quite simple..." She ventured, but quickly correctly herself, "- tasteful, to be sure, but..."

Mary blinked, her scrutinising eye darting back to her dress. It _was_ simple, she knew that. But she still looked well and it fit like a glove. She could hardly marry in a registry office wearing a tiara with a ten-foot train. Her eyes fluttered with annoyance, but she didn't quite snap. Sybil never cared what anyone wore, as long as they happy wearing it. "You love simple. You're always insisting that I should do away with the frivolities of fashion and embrace _simple_ more often."

Sybil's eyes widened slightly, sensing she'd hit a nerve, but that only seemed to fuel her on. She stood up straighter, undeterred, her eye's boring into Mary's, in the looking glass. "But it is your wedding, your wedding to _Matthew_..." Mary glanced to the floor, knowing too well what her sister was getting at. It wasn't just the dress, it was this whole affair. It was simple, so simple - like it were any other day. Yet, it was her wedding day to _Matthew_. Matthew Crawley who she'd dreamt of marrying since that late hour, alone in the dining room. He'd drunk wine from the wrong glass, and kissed her. And then, he'd taken her hand so earnestly, so devoted to her even then. _Will you marry me, Mary?_ He had asked the first time, back in Spring 1914. Mary snorted inwardly - _1914_. Sat at that dining table just the two of them, it had entered unwittingly into her mind that she was to have a wedding fit for Downton's mistress, after all. And it seemed that Sybil had thought much the same, the same as she, the same as Carson, and probably the same as everybody else but dear Matthew - who only wanted Mary. Sybil shrugged gently. "It's only that you could be queen of the county, - the whole village would turn out for you."

She swallowed at her sister's knack for reading thoughts, but flinched at how self-important it all sounded. "Your idea of the perfect wedding, is it?" She retorted, knowing the answer. Sybil was better than she - she only had wanted Tom; she never gave any thought to weddings.

"No," Sybil said patiently, "but I always thought that was what _you_ wanted. A wedding breakfast at Claridge's..." She trailed off awkwardly at the mention of Mary's first wedding, her wedding to Richard, which painted her as the darling of London rather than the queen of any county. So different to what her Papa had wanted, and so different to today. Sybil licked her lips guiltily at the mention, but she'd always put it down to Richard; Mary had never spoken of a London wedding before. "I thought you wanted bunting and Yorkshire."

Mary's eyes glazed over, bunting and Yorkshire - it was always how it was supposed to be. The servants waving her off, the villagers cheering after the carriage - but back then, it had always been a faceless man that she'd exchanged rings with. An aristocrat of some variety. In some darker moments, she'd forced herself to picture Cousin Patrick. She shuddered inwardly - was her dream wedding really her choice at all? "Perhaps I did once." But she didn't anymore. Somehow, she was marrying the man everyone had wanted her to marry and she would be queen of the county. Countess of Grantham. Not that that mattered much. And not that it mattered today. She smiled softly again at her sister, willing Sybil to see the sincerity there. "I want something quiet." _Honest_. Sybil returned it in kind, but she had a look on her face. The look that said Mary was soft after all, and how it was awfully romantic and Mary quickly turned wry. "Anyway, I'm going to be splashing out on a summer tour of Europe for a honeymoon, so I don't want to overdo things. One wouldn't want to be gauche."

Sybil almost rebuked at her for such a superficial remark, but she knew better. Mary liked people to have a certain idea of her, even if it wasn't the most flattering. It would only annoy her to point it out and Sybil supposed a bride should have her day her way. "No, no, one wouldn't that." She smiled on in agreement, still feeling quite out of place. "It's a shame Edith isn't here." Sybil offered.

"To let the cat out of the bag?" Mary retorted, finally turning around to face Sybil, as she stepped down to look at fabrics. "Reporting me to Mama always was her favourite pastime."

Sybil reproached her sister with a look. "She can keep secrets, and she cares for your happiness more than you think."

Mary opened her mouth to fire something back, but another look from Sybil stopped her. Sybil knew her sisters too well. That for some reason, unbeknownst to them, they begrudgingly loved each other and wanted each other to be happy. With age, they had softened, and when Edith had passed through London on the way to Dover, Mary had even been sad to her see her go. Not that she'd admitted it to a soul. She shrugged, placidly. "I know."

"Try on a jacket." Sybil offered, going to sit down. She smiled conversationally. "The children aren't coming?"

Mary opened her mouth again, but paused, frowning uncomfortably. A pang and there was that knot again. "I told Matthew that they weren't fussed by weddings, but now, I..." She busied herself with surveying the jackets on display. "I don't want to do it without them. It's as if I need them to say _I do_ as well, or something."

"If they've found a Saturday fair, they won't be back for hours. I find that it's impossible to drag Charlotte away from a merry-go-round. " Sybil tried, sympathetically. She waited for Mary to turn back to her, but her sister seemed determined to avoid her gaze. "It's probably for the best; Emily often has colder feet than you do."

"Quite."

A change of subject, then. "Another daughter eloping - terribly romantic," Sybil tried again, that familiar mischievous glint in her eye, "but Papa will be vexed."

"It's Caxton Hall, Sybil - not Gretna Green." Mary rolled her eyes, coming to sit beside Sybil and help herself to the champagne that had been put out for them. "Eloping is for the young, - Matthew and I are simply two adults who've made a mature decision to spend the rest of our lives together."

Sybil nodded but wasn't convinced. She pursed her lips with an amusing thought. "Oh, so there aren't any constraints for time, then?"

Too ladylike to choke on her champagne, Mary's eyes only widened a little. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you're insinuating, but I assume indignation is the appropriate response." Sybil remained as amused as ever. Mary rolled her eyes again. "Will you stand up with us, then? Matthew's worried to put you two in such a position; he doesn't want to give Papa another reason to take issue with Tom."

"That's sweet, but Tom and I learned long ago that we can't live our lives to please Papa or anyone else." Sybil said nonchalantly, but rather hoping Mary would take such advice to heart. "How can you even ask? Of course we'll stand with you. You came to my wedding, it's only right that I return the compliment. Again." Sybil grinned, but her sister shot her a withering glare. She sighed inwardly; knowing Mary, her sister's late husband had been purposefully - but rather unsuccessfully - pushed from her mind. "Richard would've been very pleased for you. Insanely jealous, but pleased." She dared to joke, eliciting a small smile from Mary. "He loved you."

"Yes and I, him." Mary replied quietly. " - Even if there wasn't any bunting."

Sybil sighed inwardly as her sister's gaze drifted to her lap. "I'm sorry." She whispered, instinctively reaching out to grab Mary's hand. "I didn't mean anything before. I never cared for weddings, so I never felt deprived...but I don't want you to regret your day."

"But I don't want a _day_, don't you see?" Mary squeezed Sybil's hand in earnest. "I want Matthew, with every bone in my body and life is too precious to waste time with - !" She clamped her lips to stop herself. She shook her head and faced her sister head on. "I'm too old to give a damn about what things look like, how they seem. It's about how things _are_ - and I shan't be happy until I'm Matthew's wife, and we're a family." Her tongue hit the roof of her mouth; that blasted knot tightening again: "The four of us."

"Too old? Don't let Granny hear you speak so." Sybil grinned, so pleased to hear Mary speak as she did. "You're wiser, that's all. Wiser than when you begrudged Matthew for coming to Downton. Wiser than when you spurned his first proposal and wiser than the last time we stood before a mirror admiring what you were to wear on your wedding day." Mary tilted her head in acknowledgement. "- You know what's important in this world."

She did. She wanted nothing more than to be Matthew's wife. "...I do."

"Yet?" Sybil asked kindly, seeing her sister hesitate.

_The four of us_. Mary's stomach churned, wondering what her darlings were doing at this moment. She swallowed, swiftly getting up from her seat to look in the mirror critically again. "This dress _is_ too simple. I'll need a stole. And diamonds. I wonder how well Mamie can pin curls."

Sybil's eyes didn't bother to skim her; she just watched Mary's face, as she lied. But she was sure that she'd used up all her questions for one day, and if Mary wanted to pretend all was well, then her sister would do that for her. "What happened to the _frivolities of fashion_?"

"Sybil, darling, how can one truly be wise without good taste?"

* * *

><p>"I thought you weren't really having a wedding." Tom frowned, awkwardly holding the cake box under his arm, as Matthew and he stepped out on to the street. They both squinted against the sunlight, the morning clouds having long cleared up to make way for a brighter afternoon. Spring had arrived, finally. Matthew smiled at how apt it was; the season for new life and his new life was to begin today.<p>

"Well, we can still cut a cake, can't we?" Matthew said cheerfully, as they began to cut across a park. "Champagne in a garden?" He offered, breathing in deeply the little patch of green in London.

Tom almost rolled his eyes at Matthew's euphoria, but didn't want to burst the man's bubble. "You can't go wrong with a Victoria Sponge." Tom agreed before a wicked grin came across his face. "I wouldn't let Mrs. Patmore know about it, though." Matthew blinked at that, the abbey in all its glory entering forbiddingly into his mind. Tom grimaced, apologetically, shifting the cake box uncomfortably. "Sorry, forget about Downton."

Matthew smiled again to put Tom at ease, but it more a little more subdued, more uneasy. "I can't help but wonder what everyone's going to make of this. Robert will call me out for sure." He added, wondering how much truth there would be to that wry remark.

"A duel with the golden boy?" Tom snorted, without thinking. "You'll still be the favourite son-in-law, don't worry about that."

Matthew went to stop the younger man from putting himself down, but Tom simply raised an eyebrow. They both knew what was what. Lord Grantham may have made his peace with Sybil's marriage and may have even learned to like Tom in his own way, but Matthew had become the son Robert had never had. And Tom couldn't find it in him to begrudge him that; after all, nobody could help but like Matthew. "There's always Strallan..." Matthew ventured, to receive only another eyebrow. Well, it was worth a try. No matter who Robert favoured, however, Matthew was so terribly grateful to Tom for trailing after him as he searched for all of today's various necessities. "Thank you, for supporting us."

"We're honoured that you want us there. Sybil thinks of you more as a brother, - now it'll be official." Matthew smiled at that, their pace slowing to an amble as they passed the park's pond and heard children shriek from afar. Tom shook his head, taking in the pleasant surroundings and how calm Matthew seemed, everything dealt with in a single day."God, I wish Sybil and I had done this instead. My mother was impossible - wanted something befitting an Earl's daughter, but turning the local pub into the Ritz is harder than you might think."

Matthew allowed Tom to lament, but wasn't fooled. "I'm sure it was perfect."

"It was, it was." Tom agreed, as Matthew slowed to a halt and took a moment on a garden bench, looking out on the view. Little old ladies strolling along, a group of children trying to put their paper boats on to the water. "She was so happy that her sisters could be there. It was a shame her parents didn't want to come over for it." Tom could have kicked himself for the comment, but sat beside Matthew silently.

"A shame, yes."

Tom sighed inwardly at Matthew's painfully pensive expression; _oh Tom, you do put your foot in it sometimes!_ - he could hear Sybil berating him already. "At this point, I think Mrs. Crawley will be so relieved that you're marrying somebody, she'll forget all about the invitation getting lost in the post." Tom joked light-heartedly. Matthew took some solace in the fact that he'd made his intentions clear to his mother the previous night. Although Isobel was expecting her to son to return to Yorkshire engaged rather than _married_, no doubt. Matthew glanced at Tom out of the corner of his eye, the man seeming torn whether to say more. He looked at him questioningly; Tom shrugged apologetically. "Still, good luck with Lady Grantham."

"Which one?" It was Matthew's turn to snort.

His eyes scanning the small landscape before them, Matthew was drawn to the children by the water, espying their mothers watching them from afar. One always had to be vigilant, he supposed. A little boy struggled to tear off some stale bread for the ducks, his face wary as the birds waited impatiently. Reminded him of Rabbit. Matthew swallowed; he'd missed Mary so very much, but he hadn't realised quite how much it would hurt to be away from the children. Peter had been his faithful companion for so many months now, and Emily and he were on the way to being firm friends, too. She had a dry humour that he couldn't help but love. So much like her mother, and yet so much her very own person.

Matthew smiled as the boy was approached by, who he could only assume to be, his young brother, barely a toddler. He trotted over confidently to the older boy, and reached to pull the bread out of his hand. His brother obliged him and tore him off a piece.

Rabbit would make a wonderful big brother.

"You all right?" Tom asked, interrupting his thoughts, and following Matthew's eyeline. He grinned. "Oh, you can look forward to that."

Matthew returned the smile, but had learned long ago not to get his hopes up. "Do you think so?"

"I don't think you have a choice," Tom informed, adopting a rather posh lilt, "- it's your duty to Downton."

_A little prince for the kingdom_. "It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it." Matthew replied, feigning a desperate sigh.

"What a martyr."

Matthew grinned at Tom's mutterings, but looking back at the two boys playing together, squabbling together, he felt a pang as he wondered what Peter and Emily were doing right now. Mary and he were to become a family today, and yet two of the family's most important members weren't going to be there. Emily may not care to be a bridesmaid, but he was quite sure they'd never hear the end of it anyway. He sighed inwardly, eyes squinting uncomfortably against the sun again. Perhaps the pang was guilt - an emotion that Matthew was well-versed in. Or perhaps it was rather fear. The fear of disappointing the most darling children in the world (of that he had absolutely no doubts). He knew how to love Mary - he'd done so for many years now - and today he'd been given a chance to do so openly, truthfully, honestly for the rest of his life, however long or short it might be.

But fatherhood - well, it was a whole other kettle of fish, wasn't it? He could only pray that Mary would forgive him for all the mistakes he was sure to make. He knew that trying to fill Richard's shoes wouldn't do, but the man wasn't here anymore. It would fall to Matthew to be the father and to support Mary; to impress on Rabbit the responsibilities of being a man - to defend his principles, to be respectful through life; to let every boy know who passed Emily's path that he couldn't possibly be good enough, to reluctantly give her hand to the best of a bad bunch - to someone who encouraged and loved her almost as much as he did. God, such ground they'd made - was today going to ruin everything? They'd seemed pleased at the prospect of he and their Mama marrying, but he couldn't help feeling that they were selfishly rushing everything. He and Mary wanted nothing more than to be together, but their actions today could hurt others. There was that guilt again.

Matthew swallowed; he would rather deal with Cousin Violet a hundred times over than see their little faces forlorn this evening.

* * *

><p>Sybil shook her head slightly, as she watched her sister once more pace the foyer of Caxton Hall, abundant with energy and yet seemingly tired all at the same time. Mary looked so awfully pensive; she was worried that she'd pushed her too far, pried too much. Sybil berated herself, how like Granny she had been? She should have shut up and been supportive - that's all she had ever wanted when she'd married.<p>

But then Sybil's heart soared, as Mary stopped in her tracks, a smile gracing her features as a rather breathless Matthew opened the door and came towards her. Tom soon followed, winking at her as he came in and kissing his wife firmly on the cheek.

"Look at you." Matthew said, now breathless at the sight of Mary. Her eyes shined; no compliment was needed, his face said a thousand words. And didn't he look well, too. It was a pity about the lounge suit, but seeing as they weren't marrying in a church, she supposed it was appropriate. Mary scolded herself inwardly; only she would be able to be this happy and still find something to criticise.

She briefly raised an eyebrow, as Matthew's eyes lingered on her. A few hours apart and he'd missed her. And she'd missed him, and yet - she bit her tongue, sure that she'd break his heart to say it.

"Rings!" He suddenly blurted, a hand shooting to his pocket. "I have rings! Engagement - and wedding." Matthew offered nervously, holding them up for Mary to see, but she barely glanced at them. "This, _this_ is my grandmother's - Mother gave it to me last night. I think I was supposed to propose with this one. Do you want me to get down on my knee again?" He grinned cheekily, before taking note of her somewhat glazed expression. "You don't like them. Oh, God-"

Mary snapped to at that, shaking her head vehemently, placing her hand to his cheek. "You make me the happiest woman alive." She assured him quietly. "Savour that, I'm not one for..."

"I know." He replied gently, wondering at her seriousness. "There's a cake." He tried smiling again, glancing to Tom who held up the box, grinning, before taking in the emptiness of the room. "Where's Carson?"

"He's not here." Mary shrugged imperceptibly. _Ah_, Matthew thought, her disappointment coming off in waves. "I don't think he's going to come. It was a lot to ask; I shouldn't have asked it of him." She muttered, more to herself than to anybody else.

"Oh," Matthew, shrugging a little himself, an awful feeling starting to form in the pit of his stomach; he settled on what he knew to be true. "You look beautiful."

"Matthew..." Her voice no more than a whisper, her eyes shining again. He knew it wasn't happiness, and he knew what was coming. He'd probably known since they'd parted ways those few hours ago.

She bit the inside of her cheek unhappily, miserably watching Matthew piece it together. _The four of us_. She couldn't do it without them. She wouldn't do it without them, her babies. _Their_ babies - if he'd still have her after this. And she couldn't do it without her parents, either. After everything that she'd put them through over the last few months, over how strained their relationship had become over the years. They had finally understood her, they let her leave Downton for London without any desperate attempts to keep her or comments on the selfishness of her actions - which Mary, herself, was beginning to appreciate -, they'd let her go and loved her from afar. Her eyes flicked to his button hole flower, a cream camellia. She wondered if he'd been to a florist - she hadn't even bothered with a bouquet. She bit harder to stop herself from crying.

"I know."

A mere whisper, but she knew that he'd understood her perfectly. Tears sprung her eyes; he didn't even sound that surprised. "I _can't_." She said pointlessly, letting out a small sob.

He had understood her perfectly. He'd seen the doubt as they'd spoken with Carson, how quiet she'd been as they parted ways with a kiss on a street corner. They'd been so caught up in the moment - and what a beautiful moment it had been! - before they'd fallen back to earth. Matthew sighed to see her cry, his hands now coming to her cheeks as he wiped the tears which were free flowing - how desperate she looked to disappoint him. He wasn't sure that he could love her anymore. Mary opened her mouth to explain herself, but he shook his head firmly. No words were needed. He understood.

"I know."

Sybil stepped forward with confusion, as Mary kissed Matthew desperately. Pulling back, Mary wiped away what mascara there might be under her eyes. "Can't what? What's wrong?"

"You were right," Mary offered her sister, her grateful eyes still on Matthew, "- this might as well be eloping."

Sybil blinked, glancing at Matthew's resigned expression. _God_. They weren't going to go through with it. "Oh, what do I know?" She insisted, suddenly desperate for her sister to grab this opportunity with both hands. God forbid that this somehow pull Mary and Matthew apart once more. "You're a grown woman, Mary. You don't need Papa's permission."

"No." Mary agreed, sighing tearfully. Papa had been so proud of her when she'd left Downton, how she'd picked herself up and soldiered on. _Carry on_, he'd said. "No, but I want his blessing." Her words caught in her throat; she _needed_ his blessing. She needed her family. "Matthew, I love you, but...I..." She prayed that he wouldn't hate her for today - she was more or less jilting him, after all.

And yet, he still soaked in the sight of her with such devotion, such love and understanding that she was quite sure that she didn't deserve him. He shrugged, casually. "Family is everything; you would think that we'd have learned that by now." And he really meant it. He was a father now; he'd made the last selfish decision he was ever going to make.

"Today was so romantic; it was perfect." Mary promised him, her hand reaching out to grasp his. "But all I can think is that they'll be back at Aunt Rosamund's, with a toffee apple for me or some milk bottles...Emily's feet will be sore and Rabbit will have such stories to tell," She smiled wistfully at the thought of it, "and they will all be wondering where we are, hoping that we've come to our senses - "

"Which, thank God, you have."

Matthew looked up to the voice, and Mary followed suit. Blinking as her teary vision cleared, she knew that she'd heard Granny's voice, but could only feel disbelief to see her, cane in hand, Carson steadying her elbow at the foyer's entrance. With Isobel, with Papa and Mama holding the children's hands, with Aunt Rosamund coming in from the door.

Unable to look at their faces, God forbid what she saw there, she turned to Sybil and Tom in askance, but one look told her that her sister and brother-in-law were just as taken aback as she was. She half-expected Edith to come trailing behind, Anthony in his peaked Captain's cap, both smelling of the ocean. Mary looked back to her family, her jaw clenching, not knowing what to say, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or indignant, not understanding why they here. To put a stop to this charade, she supposed. Risking a glance at her father, she sighed inwardly to find his expression quite unreadable. She couldn't believe it and found herself quite wanting the world to swallow her up.

Until Matthew held her hand a little tighter.

"You needn't look so shocked, Mary dear." Violet continued, leading the pack and sweeping across the hall to her eldest granddaughter. "Carson may be the keeper of all Crawley secrets, but it's awfully naughty of you to expect him to keep secrets _between_ us. Allegiances are difficult to break. You may be Countess of Grantham one day, but today is not that day."

Matthew saw Cora's eyebrows rise at the insinuation, but Mary barely heard what was said, too entranced by that old twinkle back in her grandmother's eyes. Granny was pleased. She could hardly believe it; none of this was by the book.

Rosamund almost rolled her eyes, as her mother left it at that, and jumped into the foray. "Carson telephoned Mama, who telephoned Cousin Isobel, and they both came down on the first available train and found us back at Eton Square, wondering as to where you two had gone. Shall we?" She gestured to the next room. Her tone tried to be scolding, but it was difficult as she admired how well Mary looked. The shock of the family's arrival dissipated as quickly as it had arrived, and Sybil, grinning, rushed forward to kiss her mother in greeting, Peter tugged on his grandfather's hand to talk, and Carson cast his eye around the room.

Isobel stepped forward away from any chatter before her son. Matthew blushed guiltily, and went to apologise, but she shook her head, raising a gentle hand to her dear boy's cheek, quite unbelieving that this day had finally come. Things were being set right; she looked to his side, to dear Mary, and smiled. There wasn't really any other way this could have gone. No other woman he could have stood up with, made vows to, and meant them.

"My only son getting married - wild horses couldn't have kept me away."

Matthew smiled, still uneasy, the ring she'd given him feeling heavy in his hand. He couldn't bear to disappoint her and, if it hadn't been for Mary's hesitation, he would have married her - without his mother. "I'm sorry, I..."

"That's enough of that." Isobel tutted at the apology. "I heard you. We all heard you. You wanted us here, and now here we are."

Matthew nodded thankfully. "You must have been travelling all day."

"Hmmm." Isobel agreed, dropping her voice a little. "With Cousin Violet, so have pity." A thought occurred to her, and a wicked grin settled on the older woman's features. "Or with _your_ Granny, should I say." Leaving her son with that thought, she patted her son on the cheek and decided to follow Sybil and Tom, who began to lead an impatient Rosamund and Granny through to the right room. Matthew raised an amused eyebrow as he watched Violet demand of some poor unsuspecting gentleman whether the room was fitted correctly, the look of mortification on Tom's and his mother's faces - and looks without surprise on Sybil's and Rosamund's. He glanced at Mary to see if she, too, was watching them go, hoping the mood was lightening, but she seemed so pensive, her eyes flicking to her Papa, to Carson. She bit the inside of her cheek as her Mama came closer.

"Depriving your mother from putting on a wedding." Cora sighed gently, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her heart ached to see her daughter so worried, and she instinctively reached out to get rid of the last traces of mascara from under Mary's eyes. "I wouldn't have held it against you - not for very long, anyway." She wrinkled her nose, lovingly. "We love you so much, darling. Now, dry your tears, hmm?" Mary nodded obediently, but her eyes glistened once more as she looked to her father. Cora sighed, gesturing for her husband to come forward. "Robert..."

Mary grinned tearfully at her two angels, as Rabbit let go of his Grandpapa's hand to hold on to his mother's dress. She ran an adoring hand through his hair, smiling at Emily as she also let go of Robert's hand to launch herself at Matthew, demanding to be picked up, no doubt worn out from the fair. Of course, Matthew obliged.

For a moment, Robert looked bereft, as his grandchildren left him, but taking in the scene before him, he was finding it difficult to begrudge his daughter anything. Despite his heart sinking at the idea that she would keep this day away from her family.

Mary swallowed. "Papa, I..."

But Papa's attention was soon on Matthew, and Matthew stood a little straighter. He didn't doubt that the older man loved him, in many ways, as one would love a son, but seeing Robert's eyes stray to his daughter, Matthew felt nothing more than the man trying to win the favour of the father of the woman he adored. Robert's eyes softened, as Emily tiredly wrapped her arms around Matthew's neck. "You better love my daughter as much as I think you do." Robert said seriously. "As much as I do." He cleared his throat, as his voice caught, gazing once more at Mary. "Though I don't see how that's possible." Mary smiled softly, as her Papa sniffed before his emotions got the better of him, kissing her quickly on the cheek before she could even blink. "Now, I'm going to sit with Mama." He asserted, almost rolling his eyes as Cora looked between her daughter and husband too fondly. "Your hand is not mine to give away. You've grown into quite the woman, Mary Crawley." Mary nodded, overcome, and Robert berated himself as a frog formed in his throat again. "Anyway, I think these two would do a much better job of holding your hand."

Mary nodded, again, her hand pushing back the hair from Peter's face, as he quietly watched his Mama and Grandpapa, Nicholas under his arm. She was a mother; she hardly needed her father to give her away. And yet, she was certain that she'd never loved her Papa more. She smiled beautifully at him, sure words wouldn't do justice, and Robert nodded, understandingly, taking his wife by the arm and following the rest of the family.

Mary's eyes watched them go for only a moment, before they rested on the last family member in the foyer. For he was family. Standing awkwardly, unsure of the right thing to say - he'd never seemed less like Carson and more like a Crawley. This day certainly hadn't turned out the way she'd expected and it was all thanks to Carson. She smiled inwardly as she caught his gaze and he naturally stood taller, his arms coming behind his back. A small intake of breath: there was still that warmth there, a glint in his eye, that touched her heart just as it did when she was a child.

"I'll go back to the house, milady. Have the cook put on a wedding breakfast of sorts." Carson said, clearly feeling out-of-place, speaking before spoken to. Very un-Carson. "It's a private family affair."

"I know it is." Mary agreed, without pause. "- So, why are you leaving?" Carson's brow raised slightly, taken aback, at her determination and sincerity. Mary swallowed back any emotion; she'd already cried enough in front of Carson to last her a lifetime. "There's sure to be a seat next to Aunt Rosamund." She said, with a tone of wryness, but her voice brooking no argument. Carson's place was here.

And he knew it as much as she did: "Very good, milady."

Finally, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as Carson made his way forward, Mary dared to look at Matthew. His eyes hadn't strayed from her for some time. Her head tilted lovingly to see the tiniest frown grace his face, worried at how she was. That was Matthew: caring to a fault. Impulsively, she rubbed a thumb over his frown to somehow smooth it, and kissed him gratefully, feeling almost light-headed at how things had turned out today. Here, they stood in the foyer, about to embark on the rest of their lives. _The four of them_. She felt Matthew grin into her mouth, as squawks of disgust rose in protest. Pulling back, Mary tugged on one of her daughter's plaits, feeling just as cheerful as she was supposed to feel on such an occasion.

Matthew smiled at the children. "You two terrors ready?"

"Is it going to be very long?" Peter asked, starting to suck his thumb.

"Hardly, it's all a let-down really." Matthew assured them, grinning as Mary swatted him. He winked at Rabbit playfully. "But then we can eat cake."

Peter's eyes lit up at that, and Mary looked to her daughter for her thoughts. Emily shrugged, quite content to be in Matthew's arms. "Any excuse to eat cake, Mama."

Mary couldn't agree more. "Hmmm, quite. It's a shame that Aunt Edith couldn't be here."

She said it conversationally enough, but Matthew grin only grew wider as he wondered what had quite come over his wife-to-be. Family truly was everything, he supposed. "We're going to become a family, today." He announced, looking to see what the children made of that.

Emily and Peter shared a confused look. "We weren't before?" Rabbit asked, puzzled, demanding his mother hold his hand.

"Matthew and I are putting it in writing." Mary clarified.

"_Papa_ and I are putting it in writing." Emily corrected her mother, quite forgetting herself, and blushing. Matthew smiled at Mary, pathetically pleased with himself; Mary rolled her eyes. "Till death us do part." Emily pointed out to Matthew, making sure he was serious. "I asked Grandmama - that's the rule."

"It is." Matthew nodded, feigning solemnity but still sincere. "I will. To love and to cherish. All of you - and for the rest of my days." His tone softened, as he saw it was Mary's turn to blush. "We'll go in together, shall we? The four of us?" Mary nodded, those tears daring to make another appearance and kissed Matthew hard, braving the complaints from the children.

"The four of us." Rabbit grinned, his eyes looking between his parents, before a thought struck him: "And Nicholas!"

And with that, Matthew led his family away from the foyer, putting a kiss to Mary's brow and offering her his grandmother's ring as he did so. Though they were far from Downton, he was quite sure that he'd never felt more at peace, more in love, more at home.

**THE END**

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><p>There we have it! I wanted to end it on a positive note, and have a complete story, but this won't be the end of Rabbit and Emily :) I am so sorry about how late this update has been. It would be an understatement to say that I've been a bit busy and apologies to those who've been waiting. I'm ready to start writing more fics again, so any inspiration would be greatly appreciated. I was thinking of doing a sequel or prequel to Home is where the heart is, so thoughts on the matter are really welcome. Thank you so much for all your reviews! Keep 'em coming! (p.s. wanted a nice but simple ending without being too saccharine, I realise this is difficult to pull off, eek!)<p> 


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